Mr Monk and the Haunted Motel
by Amymimi
Summary: The deceased are appearing to the guests of the FantasE motel BEFORE they die. Can Adrian Monk solve this mystery? COMPLETE! Please review!
1. The FantasE Motel

Note to readers: I don't own Adrian Monk, Natalie Teeger, Captain Stottlemeyer, Lt. Disher, Dr. Kroger, and other recognized names, but I made up the other characters, heehee. Enjoy. And review.

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It is a decent hour of the morning, and I am to pick Monk up at eight to bring him to his appointment with Dr. Kroger. All of a sudden my cell phone is buzzing on the kitchen counter, its vibrations making the same eerie sound that a small chainsaw might make, and I jump from my spot on the couch to grab it. Opening the little gadget, I answer to find it is Captain Stottlemeyer, with the most ridiculously absurd phone call I'll ever get in my life.

"Hello, Natalie, is Monk there?"

"Um, no, he's not," I say quickly. There is a brief pause on the other line. Doesn't anyone call_ me_ anymore, to talk to me?

"Well, the mayor has asked me to get a hold of him, to investigate the stupidest case ever." It sounds like he is going to laugh.

"What is the case?" I ask, dying to know.

"Okay, I'll tell you, but you can't laugh…. At least not until I'm done talking," he says. I don't respond, hoping he'll continue speaking, which he does.

"Well, there is this motel, the "Fantas-E," near Death Valley—" he begins to chuckle. "The motel owner claims that his guests have seen the victims of several recent deaths, _before_ the victims died." He abruptly stops talking, and I'm assuming he's attempting to keep from laughing. I still don't see what's so funny. Maybe the punchline is next.

"The—guests see pictures of the victims flash across their TV screens, and then the victims die, wherever they are. Now, believe it or not, this has been going on for a while, but after the guests realized that their 'visions' did actually die, they decided to call us in."

I am astounded. "You mean—like ghosts?" I say. I can hear muffled laughter, and figure he is covering the receiver with his hand.

"Just—" he can't help but crack up –"have Monk get out here, as soon as possible. We're on—" He pauses momentarily "—Wood Canyon Road, about a half a mile east of Wildrose Road, in Death Valley. It's really out in the boonies…"

"He has an appointment with Dr. Kroger today at eight," I say, reminding him of the schedule.

"He's gonna have to cancel. He just has to see this, before it's too late…. See you soon…." Just like that, and he's gone.

I figure on meeting Monk at eight anyway, and not telling him about the case until he's in the moving vehicle. I know he probably hates to skip his appointment, but instead of making a huge deal of it over the phone, I'll just drop it on him as we head towards our destination. I had already arranged for Julie to spend the day at her grandparents', so a new adventure is in the books for today for Monk and me.

He had left a suitcase full of clothes at my house the last time we had went on a case, so I throw it into the vehicle, along with a bag of my own, and some wipes and Sierra Springs water for him. Maybe it'll pacify him once he realizes I thought of him. Maybe.

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The cheap white stucco of the motel can be seen coming into view, as the man sitting next to me in the Cherokee shifts uncomfortably. The motel is obviously one of those cheap ones you happen to see on the outskirts of poor towns, and in the middle of nowhere, which is where we are now. The sign, with horribly-painted yet fairly new blue lettering, spells out "Fantas-E Motel." It's obviously a play on what the motel is famous for, and has been for quite some time now: predicting the death of people in the form of ghostly images flashing across the guests' TV screens at night. Sounds stupid, right? It _is_ stupid, and I feel like I've lost respect for myself in allowing myself to actually show my face here. I guess fantasma means _ghost_ in Spanish, but who the hell cares? I sure don't.

My attention is diverted off the building, as I notice the passenger of my vehicle, sighing exasperatingly at the motel, gesturing briefly with palms upturned at something imperfect he has noticed about the state of this motel.

"Oh…." He groans to himself. "With all this public notice and fame, you'd think they'd fix the s—"

"Mr. Monk," I interrupt, "nothing at this motel is going to be perfect, or even_ nice_ for that matter. You'll be lucky to see anything that is even_ partially_ to your satisfaction."

"But can't you see? They left the 'No Vacancy' sign lit up, and half the bulbs are burnt out….then there's others that are… flickering…." He's extremely agitated, and I have to admit, it _is_ annoying. I always hated those creepy flickering signs in horror movies; they always reminded me of the Bates Motel in the movie _Psycho_. It's not so scary right now at 3:30 in the afternoon, it's just irritating. I then realize the magnitude of what he has just said.

"Did you just say the '_No _Vacancy' sign? How can a dump like that, in the middle of nowhere, be so packed?" I motion at the eyesore.

He gives me the look a parent would give a naïve child. "The _reputation_ it's earned," he practically tsks at me. "Everyone flocks to mayhem. Haven't you ever heard of this place?" I feel like I'm being condescended every time I ask a simple question.

"No I haven't, Mr. Monk," I pout. "I never assumed you were worldly enough to know about something as stupid as this."

He flashes me a look of irritation. Oh well, I figured he'd be annoyed. He actually was quite decent in the car on the way here, aside from threatening to jump out of the vehicle at EVERY red light we stopped at, and assuming an arm-crossing, pouty stance the whole way. I was happy that most of our trip consisted of Interstate 5, so there'd be no sudden stops or intersections. Monk even attempted to contact Dr. Kroger on his beeper, several times, in fact, but I yanked it off of him early on. Thank goodness I had looked over the map first, and didn't have to hear his continuous complaints at my actual usage of the badly folded paper….

As we pull into the dusty lot, a billow of powdery dirt particles swirls up around the vehicle, allowing more time for Monk and me to sit and stare at the ugly building as we wait for the dust storm to subside. I can see that his disgust with me is growing as we remain in the vehicle, and so, at the instant the cloud has subsided, I get out and walk towards the building. He hesitantly follows, shutting the door loudly with an elbow.

We stand impatiently at the desk of the concierge, if you could really call him that. The pot-bellied T-shirted man is reclining on a plastic lawn chair with feet propped up on his desk, muddy shoes dripping all over the cheap woodwork and various papers strewn haphazardly. Monk notices this filthiness immediately and manages to grab a wipe from my pocket, and he places it under the shoes.

Stottlemeyer, Disher, and a few other officers are wandering down the hallway as we wait for the motel owner to notice us, knocking on the occasional door for a short series of questions. I sigh at the absurdity of it all. A motel's TVs, haunted with ghosts of the soon-to-be dead…. Ooooooooo...

At the forward motion from Monk the man looks up from his newspaper, and eyes the detective up. "What do ya want?" he says, seemingly a bit agitated.

"We—would like to ask you a few questions," he mumbles, and the motel owner moves his feet, rumpling up the wipe with his shoes in the process. I can see Monk staring at it, wanting to fix it. A drip of mud falls onto the wood, and Monk is now over the edge. He leans once more towards the wipe. I push him away with an outstretched arm.

"What kinda questions?" the gentleman (har har) asks. "And what are ya touchin' my table for?"

Monk has to correct him. "Questions about…" he finds it so hard to say, and I can see precisely why, because it's totally stupid. "—the ghosts, and that's a desk," he manages to blurt.

"Awww, ya wanna find out about the _ghosts_?" He smiles to himself as he reaches for a greasy hamburger swarming with house flies. "Well, they're only seen by guests that have stayed at the motel for more than one night. You police people won't be seein' 'em."

My companion is revolted. "Oh, please don't—" he watches as the man raises the fly-infested hamburger to his mouth, and bites into it. "—eat that…." He covers his face with his hand, shielding his eyes from the sight.

"So, you're saying we'll see the ghosts if we check in here?" the detective says, gulping, looking towards the motel entrance.

The concierge puts the hamburger down on the desk, and Monk sighs with relief.

"Yup, but only if you stay for more than one night. And even then, you're not guaranteed to see one, because—"

Monk speaks up, with a tone of annoyance. "Sounds like a marketing ploy to me," he murmurs, shifting his feet.

The concierge removes his feet from the desk and stands up in defiance. "You really think I'm killing people to make money on this here motel? How _dare_ you accuse me of somethin' so horrible! The deceased ain't even from around here!" he yells, and a cloud of bad breath follows. Monk flinches, turning his head and making his disgust so obvious that it's amazing he hasn't been punched yet.

I sigh with frustration. Captain Stottlemeyer has heard the racket, and appears behind me, touching me on the shoulder and leaning in towards the motel owner.

"What do you think this is, buddy, some kind of game? People are _dying_! And your guests are claiming to have seen them before they did!"

The motel owner is obviously taken aback by the big, intimidating man with the deep voice. He puts his hands up. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I've never even seen the ghosts. The guests have been telling me, and apparently they told you guys too."

Stottlemeyer pulls Monk and me aside, and speaks with us in private outside the motel. "Well, if you guys want to get any leeway on this case, you're going to have to do as he says. You'll get to see if it's true or not, and we will be on call for whoever you happen to see, if you happen to actually see someone." He stifles his laughter.

"Is this some kind of practical joke, Captain?" I ask. Two nights in this garbage heap of a motel with Monk is going to be a one-of-a-kind, and hopefully once-ever, experience.

"Do I look like I'm la—" he is cut off by the betrayal of his own humor. He clears his throat and assumes the 'serious concerned police officer' face, and replies.

"People are actually dying. And nobody knows how it is possible that the televisions could be displaying it. All the motel televisions that have revealed these apparitions were off at that time of night, and only get local cable anyway when they are on. All of the victims are at least 250 miles away from the motel, so it wouldn't be some kind of area station that is transferring this information."

Monk is simultaneously revolted by it, yet curious. "And the visions, were they pictures of the victims, or video?"

"Guests have claimed that the television turns on, and there's a picture of the deceased with a time of death that flashes several times on the screen, like a countdown. It's supposedly a really creepy sight."

I suddenly get a cold chill. "I'll agree with that one," I say. I cross my arms, rubbing the goosebumps on my upper arms with my hands.

I can tell Monk is affected too. "So disturbing, and yet, the motel is booked. I'll… never understand… people," he says. I nod at him.

"So are you two going to spend those two nights here?" the captain seems to state more than ask.

Monk shakes his head quickly. "No," he says quietly. "No…." He looks up inquisitively at the captain.

The captain sneers at him, putting his hands on his hips. "Well, why not, Monk? The _mayor_ is depending on you."

The detective looks at his feet, continuing to shake his head. "This… isn't the mayor's vicinity. You, however, seem to be in the right mindset to do this sort of thing."

Stottlemeyer unexpectedly grabs Monk by the shoulders, making him lift his head to look at him again. He grips Monk in this way as he tries to convince him to listen.

"Monk, you _know_ that you solve every case I throw at you. Cops— countless numbers— have already stayed here. They've seen the images as well as the other guests, but they can't figure it out. You are the only one who has the mind to figure this out." He pokes Monk in the side of the head as he says the last line.

"I-I… can't…." the detective blurts more loudly, as the captain releases his grip. "I don't have wipes, or clothes, or pillowcases, or food, or Sierr—"

I interrupt him. "Actually, Mr. Monk, I grabbed the suitcase you left at my house to bring along with us. I even packed a few Sierra Springs bottles. So now you have clothes and water _and _your pillowcases."

Stottlemeyer smiles, but I can tell that Monk is still not going to back down.

"I don't want those clothes here. Those are for—they aren't the clothes that I would have brou—"

"You're all set for a visit, Monk," the captain says, patting Monk on the chest. "You're even more prepared than I a—"

"Well, _you _can wear my—No…" He changes his mind very quickly in regards to a strange man wearing his suits and underwear, but still is going to attempt to convince him again. This is getting really annoying, and the constant dust blowing all over the place is bothering my eyes.

Now he's going to plead with the captain, I can tell by his change in stance. This has never worked before; doesn't he realize that?

"Captain, please, you can't make me stay here. You ca—It's not going to work. It's filthy and fly-infested and… haunted."

The captain begins to laugh. He doesn't stop.


	2. Checking In

Monk and I stand stiffly with suitcases in hand, preparing to check in to the motel. The concierge has a renewed interest in us, now that we are establishing ourselves as money-paying guests.

"How can I help you folks?" he says, finishing up the hamburger from earlier.

"We'd like… two rooms, please," I state calmly, finding my heavy suitcase difficult to hold for prolonged periods of time.

"I'm sorry, Miss," he says. Monk looks over at me, beaming. Maybe we won't have to stay anyway! I'm very happy too, but I don't want to make it too obvious to the owner of the place. Although I would like to Monk to solve this case, I changed my mind as we were approaching the desk for the second time. Monk definitely has no tact whatsoever with expression of his feelings, in the case of _this_ type, that is.

"There's only one vacancy; it just opened up at check-out time today, fifteen minutes ago. Better decide now, before it's gone." He gives me a greasy smile, and I cringe.

Monk walks away, toward the motel entrance. I can see Stottlemeyer coming up the hallway, probably wondering why he is leaving. He reaches me, and gives me a look of confusion.

"Where the hell is Monk going?" he asks me.

"Home. There is only one vacancy," I state quietly. "Just where I'm going, as well. This is too much."

I begin to turn away from the desk, but a strong hand holds me in place. "You and Monk _have_ to check into this room," Stottlemeyer pleads. "I thought you _wanted _him to make money. I'm sure if he solves this case he'll be getting a lot, because this has been going on for almost six weeks now."

Money…. Is it really worth spending two nights with Monk in one room of a filthy, supposedly haunted motel? This sounds like a cheesy B-movie horror flick that can be found in the bargain bin at your local D&K store.

"And just what do _I _get out of this?" I ask in a smart-alec tone. This is my life and my time, and I'm entitled to my own demands. "He pays me the same paycheck, no matter _what_ case we are on. I'd rather be home with my daughter."

Stottlemeyer will break down soon if he doesn't think of a way to convince me—fast.

"What do you want me to say? It's just two nights…." He's now at the breaking point. Pretty soon he's going to yank Monk out of the parking lot and drag him into the building. First he has to convince me, though; I'm the adult in this.

Now the captain is giving me these earnest looks, which really affect me in a weird way. This big masculine guy is pleading with _me_ to do something. Me, the former bartending blackjack dealer who is now the assistant of an assistant to the police. Wow, it's nice to feel important. I had forgotten how that felt.

I guess that look is enough to make me agree, for I soon hear myself say "Yes," and regret it the second it leaves my mouth. Too late now. I've made a verbal agreement with the police captain of San Francisco.

As I give the man the captain's 100.00 for our two-night stay in this cheap, hole-in-the-wall motel, I can't help but wonder why anyone would spend so much money to stay here, even if it _does_ give you nightmares for the rest of your life. Notice my sarcasm.

Monk is soon being pushed from behind by the captain as he attempts to dig his heels into the flooring to prevent this from happening. "Don't tell me we're actually going to stay here," he cries, dropping his suitcase.

Although the motion is dramatic, the intensity of the situation soon is lost as Monk realizes what he has done by dropping his luggage on the ground, and hastily picks it back up, dusting off the bottom of it with yet another wipe. We will surely be out by tonight, and then the _real _horrors will start.

I grab our room key and begin to head down the hallway. The motel is one story, and smells so strongly of motel –you know that smell—that I already have a raging headache. Or maybe it's from the realization that I'm going to have to deal with a nagging employer for two days straight.

I can see Monk struggling to lug his bag down the hallway as he continues to wipe it, being watched carefully all the while by Stottlemeyer, who is blocking the exit.

Our room number –12—I soon reach, and I slide the primitive key into the hole, expecting ants to come crawling out, but I am mistaken, at least in that respect. What I find in the room truly shocks and disgruntles me. It is the lone double bed, in an orange sea of horrors.

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Not only is there one place to sleep, but the carpeting is so atrociously filthy that I would not lay a sock or blanket upon it, let alone the length of my body. I will _not_ be sleeping on that floor. I would sooner push Monk onto it as he sleeps.

Upon entering the room, I lay my suitcase down on top of the heavily scratched dresser, not even wanting_ it_ to touch the floor. I decide to examine the room before Monk arrives, for he will be screaming about everything once he arrives.

The double bed seems… small… but maybe that's because Mitch and I always slept in a queen-size. The floor is a hideous shade of orange, with grotesque, matted stains zigzagged and spilled all over it. It isn't merely dusty or muddy; it is stained with the most inexplicable combinations of color and texture that I could ever hope to see in the refrigerator of Jeffrey Dahmer. The moldy curtains are hung crookedly upon the rod, and upon closer inspection, I notice that the rod is in fact broken. Ouch. Monk's going to hate that as well.

Looking into the bathroom –it's amazing that a motel this horrible actually has a bathroom in each room—I notice a familiar scene, the 'before' picture of a bathroom in a _CLR_ commercial. As I first gape at the right-hand side of the room, I see that the outer ring of the bathtub is caked with rust and lime deposits, and the shower head is indescribably grotesque. There is a mildew-like stain running along the tiles of the bathroom, and the toilet, with its lifted seat, has a revolting ring of yellow.

I hear the yell of a tortured animal. Monk has entered the room.

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I exit the bathroom to find him – gone. He must have gone back out in the hallway. As I'm about to open the door to go fetch him, he comes back in, scaring me half to death. Stottlemeyer appears behind him.

"If you don't stay here for two nights, Monk, I'll have to shoot you. The San Francisco PD has looked really bad lately, and we can't screw up a stupid case like this." He is speaking very closely into Monk's ear, but is talking way too loudly for the proximity. Monk is rolling his eyes and making those twitching motions, struggling to tolerate his superior yelling into his ear. "You don't take a _step_ outside this room without Natalie nearby, you understand?"

The detective turns to face Stottlemeyer. "Then why don't you stay here instead, if you're going to be watching me anyway?"

The captain is fuming. "Because _I _have to take care of my _sons_ for the weekend; Karen is filming something out of town. I can't just shirk my responsibilities because _you _don't like the atmosphere. The department is counting on you. I _know_ you can figure this one out, Monk. Please." He doesn't even glance at the place, instead shutting the door heavily behind Monk and leaving.

I walk into the main area of the room and stand by the window, watching the crooked curtains billow over the naked heater coils. Heater? It has to be 80 degrees outside. I hastily shut it off and turn around to watch Monk's reaction to this place. He has to be a basket case by now.

"Oh my God," he moans, gazing around in absolute horror at the bed, the carpeting, and the curtains. He even notices where the wallpaper has been coming off in jagged sheets. "Oh… my…G—"

I interrupt his horror, putting my hands up as if surrendering. "I am _so _sorry about this, I really am." I feel the need to apologize for this over and over. I can imagine just how much he hates this, because I am _not _obsessive-compulsive and_ I_ can't stand it.

He just stands there, mouth agape, with the suitcase, suspended by his whitened hand, still lingering above the tainted floor.

I walk over to the dresser and shift the television set towards my luggage. "Here," I say, patting the ruined wood, "put your suitcase down here."

He shakes his head sadly, staring at the wood the whole time. "Too dirty," he states emotionlessly. I pull out a wipe, and scrub feverishly at the surface as he watches, pulling it up to find that there is a thick black layer of grime.

"Okay," I say. "I cleaned it." I really am proud of him for not killing me yet, or making a run for the door again.

He seems somewhat satisfied, and timidly approaches the dresser, laying his suitcase atop the wood. Once his hands are free of the luggage, he makes his way for the bathroom, to most likely wash up. I cover my ears and close my eyes.

The yell of disgust comes sooner than I expect. Monk emerges from the tiny room, his face drained of all color, with a paleness comparable to that of my scalp. I am startled at the utter horror that is conveyed on his face, and the sudden unhealthy pastiness he has just acquired in a matter of seconds.

"Mr. Monk, are you alright?" I say, incredibly frightened at this rapid change. He can't look me in the eye; he just stares straight out in front of him into nothingness.

I ensure that my hands are clean, so as not to further startle him, and wrap my arm around his back, leading him to sit on the bed. Once there, I turn him around and seat him upon the comforter, which actually has no obvious stains on it. The relief is a small one, but a relief, nonetheless. I sit down next to him, supporting him with an arm behind his back.

"I am so so sorry that we have to be here," I say, but the apology sounds hollow. His trance seems to be unbreakable. "How about I go to the manager and get a maid in here?"

He turns his head towards me but doesn't focus on my face. It's a distant look. "No… no maid," he says.

"Why not?" I have to keep him talking; I don't want him having some kind of speech disintegration from the stress.

"I'd prefer… to clean it myself…. to ensure that it's truly clean…. Besides, there don't seem to be any maids employed here…."

I stand up, preparing to squat down in front of him. I have to make this situation more comfortable. Maybe Stottlemeyer is still here. Only one way to find out…

"I will be right back, to get supplies," I say. "Don't move."

Opening the door slowly, just in case Stottlemeyer is actually watching for Monk to leave, I notice him at the end of the hallway, speaking to a guest from room 3.

"Captain Stottlemeyer!" I yell down the hallway in the most urgent tone I can muster. He looks up and gives the person a 'wait' gesture as he walks toward me.

I have to tell him about Monk. "—He's having some kind of a nervous breakdown," I say unsteadily, and Stottlemeyer raises his eyebrows. "He needs—cleaning supplies, at the very least. He's going to go insane if you don't make this more comfortable for him. The room is horrible, Captain, even for _my_ standards."

"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll send Disher out to get the supplies. The closest gas station is out of the way for m—"

"We don't want gas station cleaners; we want bleach and Windex and CLR and carpet cleaner, toilet bowl cleaner, and a mop and bucket and wood polish…."

"Hold on, hold on," he says, pulling a notebook out of his pocket. "What was that again?" Wow, he's actually going to listen to my requests. This will make Monk feel a whole lot better. This stupid case must really matter, for the captain to be so… hospitable.

"Alright." I count out the items on my fingers as I imagine what Monk would request. "A _large_ amount of bleach, two buckets, a mop, a pack of latex gloves…. CLR, Murphy's Oil Soap, carpet stain remover, definitely some Sno-Bowl and a toilet brush and toilet paper, um…. Windex, mildew remover, a scrub brush, baking soda, wood polish, a vacuum cleaner, some of those Lever 2000 wipes, and some rags. He also won't want to sleep in the motel's sheets. We need a double-size sheet set, and I think he has his own pillowcases already. We'll also need some hand soap and paper towels, but I think he has toiletries, towels and rags, enough for both of us. Oh! And you can't forget a case of Sierra Springs. I only brought a few bottles. Please don't let Disher get the generics for the name-brands I mentioned. You probably know that already."

He nods, scribbling it all down rapidly. "Wow, this is one expensive trip," he mutters as he finishes up the list.

"Well, it'd become a lot cheaper if you stayed here instead," I reply snappily. "I really feel bad for Monk; this place is_ filthy_."

"I know; it's just that—" the captain changes the subject. "Will _you _need any bedding, or are you going to sleep with their bedding?"

"There's only one bed," I state. The captain gasps.

"Monk will not go for that." He is probably shocked that Monk has remained in the room this long.

"I doubt they'll have any cots in this place. In fact, I doubt it 100 percent." I cross my arms and lean against the door of room 12.

Stottlemeyer starts to walk towards the front desk. "I'll go ask," he says, as he turns around.

After asking the concierge, he looks back at me, shaking his head and raising his eyebrows. I knew it. Just my luck. But I had already figured that. A packed motel, with only one new vacancy at check out time…. There's no way a cot will be available, if they even have them here.

I walk back into the room. My employer is still sitting on the bed, staring up at the ceiling now. I look up to find it must have been leaking at some point, for there are large round yellow stains everywhere, including over the bed itself.

"Mr. Monk?" I say, hoping he'll snap out of this weird trance soon. "I've got some good news."

He immediately leaps to his feet and crosses over to his luggage. "We're leaving?" he says, but it sounds like more of a statement than a question.

"Ummm, no, God, I wish I could say that. I'm actually getting you a whole bunch of supplies."

"Like what? A camper?" he replies, attempting a dead-serious joke.

"No, the next best thing."

He pauses, deep in thought. "A tent?"

"No. I am getting you every kind of cleaning supply there is, so this place _will_ be spotless."

"What are you talking about?" He's in denial. "You were only gone for five minutes…."

"I gave the list to the captain for Disher to pick up for us," I say matter-of-factly. He's obviously not convinced I've fulfilled that duty.

"Well… what did you ask for? Bleach?"

"Yep." I nod my head too happily.

"Mop and bucket?"

"Mm hmm… Two buckets, actually.."

"Uhm… toilet bowl cleaner? Carpet cleaner? More wipes?"

"Uh huh." The color is beginning to enter his face again, and I can't help but smile.

"Mildew remover?" he points over at the bathroom, and at the curtains.

"Yep, it's all covered, Mr. Monk."

"Window cleaner?"

I continue to nod. He comes over to me and stands in front of me as if he's going to hug me or something.

"I hope you're not kidding with me," he says. "Because that would be a very bad thing."

"Of course, I'm not. I hate this place too!" I exclaim. "You're not the only one who is revolted!"

He is now smiling. "Maybe this won't be so bad, after all," he says, giving a half-shrug. I'm still standing right in front of him with my hands in my back pockets, waiting for further mentionings. I'm correct in my assumption.

"And gloves, did you ask for gloves?" It's like he's trying to catch me forgetting something. Even though I haven't been with him for too long yet, the neat-freak part of me can name a decent amount of things to tidy up this room.

I nod. "I remembered everything you'd ever want, Mr. Monk, including bed sheets, and toilet paper, and paper towels, and even CLR and Murphy's Oil Soap!" He looks off in the distance. He's going to name at least one more item, I just know it.

"Vacuum cleaner…." Yep, I knew he'd have one more to mention. Wow, I really have him down now.

"Yes."

He's smiling almost to the point of being giddy. "When will it all be here?" he asks me, a sense of urgency in his voice.

"I'm not sure, maybe a little more than an hour?" I can see his smile fading. "But that's probably a maximum. I remembered that my map showed a town quite close to this place, so hopefully they have a grocery store." We both sit down on the edge of the bed and attempt to think of how to pass the time.

I get up to examine the contents of my suitcase, and realize that I had managed to throw a couple containers of wipes in with my stuff. I have my shampoo/conditioner two-in-one combo bottle, a hairdryer, a travel tube of shower gel, and a couple of razors.

Monk shields his eyes from my examining my suitcase, and shifts his position on the bed with a loud squeaking. I turn around to see him facing the door, staring off into space.

"What are you doing?" I ask, completely clueless as to why he'd be so ashamed to look. He turns his body around to sit on the end of the bed once again, shielding his eyes to only look at me and not my suitcase.

"Those are… your things…. It's rude to stare at other people's things."

I'm a little perturbed by his statement. "Are you trying to tell me something? Because if you are, you should just—"

"No, no," he mumbles, shaking his head and holding his hands up. "That's not what I meant…. I'm just… I'm not the type to gape at a… woman's… luggage…."

"Do you realize how_ bad_ that sounded just now?" I say, trying to hold back my laughter.

He doesn't get it. He continues to sit there, giving me this look of total confusion. He's not one for innuendoes. I really have to get him to lighten up.

As he continues to block the view of my luggage from his sight, I grab his shielding hand and pull it down to his leg. "This is getting ridiculous," I say. "I'm not some— S&M star that carries around whips and chains. I'm just like you…. Except female…."

The hand begins to rise again. I push it down, as he stares at me dumbfounded. "Esenem?" he asks, completely lost. "I'm not familiar with that term…." Wow, he doesn't even know that it's actually two letters, and not one word.

"Never mind, Mr. Monk," I say, patting his head. "That's something little boys like you shouldn't know about. Just don't say it in public, okay?" He's so damn innocent….

"—and you aren't just like me. Why did you just say that?"

"I _know_ I'm not just _like_ you, thank goodness," I reply with a sigh. "I'm just a… a modest person like you are, not someone who flaunts anything that shouldn't be flaunted."

"Oh, I get it," he murmurs. I can see he's trying to peek at my stuff now that I've established the fact that I'm not carrying terrible things. I hold up my shower gel for him to see. "See? I use shower gel." I grab my razors. "And razors…."

"Razors? Huh?" He doesn't know what women use _razors_ for?

"You know—razors, Mr. Monk. What do _you_ use them for?"

He's hesitant to answer. Maybe I'm getting a little too personal. Nah.

"To… uh, shave my…" he rubs his face. "I don't know, what do you call it?"

"Your facial hair?" I say. He nods in agreement, although I can tell he's scared to know where this is leading.

"Well, women have hair too," I start to say. "We shave our—"

He has stuck his fingers in his ears and shut his eyes and is now humming softly. I tap him insistently on his shoulder. He opens his eyes to look at me, but doesn't remove his fingers from their positions, and he's still humming.

I grab either of his arms and pull them away from his head. "I'm not going to tell you, okay?" I say. I allow for his arms to fall onto the tops of his legs as I continue, now crossing my arms. "Weren't you married for seven years?" I ask.

"Yes," he replies quickly. "What does that have to d—"

"Didn't you ever notice razors in the shower that weren't yours?"

He thinks deeply. I can't believe it is actually taking thought to recall this.

"I-I guess so…" he says slowly. "But I never thought to ask—"

"Oh my gosh," I say. "No wonder you miss her so much. You never caught her shaving her—"

He has resumed his position. I'm sorry, but he just has to know what I am referring to. He probably assumes it is something sick, and forbidden. Nothing about the body should be sick and forbidden, especially concerning _legs_. I grab his hands very quickly and pull them away from his head as I say the words he doesn't want to hear—"legs and underarms."

It's like I've cut him, for he recoils so suddenly and with such a pitiful expression on his face that a pang of guilt passes through me. Wait a second, though. He needs to know some things, if he ever hopes to get married again. Not everyone is like Trudy was, and I'm kind of jealous of how she was able to hide something like that from him for all these years. Or maybe he just blocked the gross things out.

He is now cringing back on the bed, with his legs still hanging down the side, and not making eye contact with me.

"Let me just show you something," I say carefully, and he only allows his gaze to rise to my neck. I bend down and grab his ankle with a single rapid movement, and straighten his leg so that it is parallel with the rest of his body. He lets me do so, but the look of fear and hurt is still on his face, and he's still cringing.

I lift up his pant leg quickly, revealing his own very hairy leg to him. Well, to myself as well, since I've never actually seen his bare legs before. "You see this, Mr. Monk?" I say, pointing at it.

"Uhm… my leg?" he responds uncomfortably.

"Your leg hair." I pinch a strand between my fingers. I can't believe he's letting me do this; I'm thoroughly impressed. I continue to explain, as I have kept his attention for a length of time now.

"Women usually have some leg hair too," I say. He looks at the point of throwing up. "Not quite as… much as you do, but they do have short fine hairs." I pause momentarily, as his rate of breathing increases. Great, now his adrenaline is rushing. Fight or flight response—junior biology class. "I'll bet you've never seen a woman with hairy legs before, though, because we shave it. Just as we do our underarms. They don't shave in France, though."

He's still disgusted, and seeks to get himself away from me. I'm still holding on to his verrry slender ankle with one hand, and he's staring at it like it's a leech from the seven lakes of hell.

"Okay, okay, I get it," he says, attempting to wrench his leg free. "Let's just… drop it, okay?" He uses his hands to reinforce this statement.

I let him have his ankle again so that he can adjust the pant length to where it had been.

After the boredom sets in completely, we turn on the television and sit in extremely close proximity to it, on the edge of the bed, for neither of us wants to take off our shoes. After watching a horrible-reception version of "Gunsmoke" and random news shows, we hear the knock and race over to the door.

It is Disher. He has a garbage bag slung over one shoulder and a mop and sweeper in the other hand, and looks more than a little upset. As I open the door, he takes a peek at the room and scoffs. "Why'd you need all this? It's not that bad!"

"Oh… yes it is," Monk says, appearing behind me. The lieutenant awkwardly transfers the bag from behind his back to my hands, and I balk at the heaviness of it. He then hands Monk the mop and vacuum cleaner. The detective studies the mop handle as if it is an antique, then looks up at Disher.

"Is this new?" he asks him with a dead serious tone.

Disher rolls his eyes. "Of course it's new, Mr. Monk," he comments. "I had to drive almost an hour out of my way to get this all for you. I hope you're comfortable now."

"Well, thank you, Disher," I say sweetly. "Is this all of it?"

"Yes," he says with an official tone, as he locks his thumbs into the waistline of his pants. This is a usual stance for him when he feels important.

"Alright then, Randy," I say, and I give him a little wave as I shut the door. I can tell by Monk's incessant fidgeting behind me that he is raring to get started, and if I am going to survive two whole nights with him, I'd better try to read him.

* * *

I'm beginning to think all the Monk fans disappeared. Please review, to prove that there are still Monk-lovers existing!


	3. Bleach and CLR

We get started. Well, actually, first Monk lines up all the cleaning supplies along the edge of the bed alphabetically by brand name, then he changes his mind and puts the products in perfect little circles as to which room they will be used in. The toilet bowl cleaner and the toilet brush are in a circle with the hand soap, and the CLR. He can't decide on where to put the three jugs of bleach, the vacuum cleaner, the buckets (he sets the mop beside the bed), or the mildew remover, because both the bathroom and bedroom will require it. Why didn't I bring a magazine?

After what seems like an hour of arranging these items that we will be using very shortly, I chime in to help. I do _not _want to watch him clean this entire room for the next two nights.

"Mr. Monk, what would you like me to clean?" I ask sweetly. He's holding the bleach in one hand, the bucket in the other, and has the mop under one arm. I then remember that he can't make decisions.

"Well, how about the…." he stammers. Wow, and he was really on a roll there for a bit….

"Never mind," I say. "I'll use the CLR and clean out the bathtub."

"Uhmm… How about you clean the mildew instead? No!" He cuts _himself _off. "The windows!" He steals a quick glance at them. "Wait, that isn't a priority….."

"I waited until you grabbed something for a reason," I reply. "So that I wouldn't pick what you were going to pick. You've already chosen what you want to work with first." I point at the bleach as he glances down at it as if he had no idea it was there.

"Well, I thought that I was going to clea—"

"I don't want you to do everything," I state. "I'm bored too, and I want to help."

He smiles at me, apparently appreciating the sanitary aspect of my personality.

We head into the bathroom, and I step into the bathtub, still wearing my shoes. There is an immensely thick brownish ring around the fixture, and I am not about to touch anything with my bare feet.

Monk sees this and immediately begins to panic. "Wait—you can't just step into the bathtub! You're still wearing shoes! All that dirt and grime is going to—"

I silence him with a finger. "Mr. Monk," I say, as calmly as possible. "I am going to remove the rust and mineral buildup _first _with this cleaner, _then _the mildew from the shower curtain with the mildew remover, and _then_ we can clean it all out with bleach, and it will be completely and utterly germ-free." I smile, proud of myself.

"But what about the—"

"The other advantage to doing it this way is that all that residue from the previous cleaners will be washed off, so that when we take our showers, the bleach will be all that is left."

"You're not going to rinse it away! And what do you mean, _we_? This is _my _bathroom."

"Of _course_ I'm going to rinse it." I shake my head and tsk at him. "And, no, it's not _your _bathroom. I want to use a clean bathroom as well."

"I need to have my own bathroom," he says. He shrugs, bending down to fill the bucket. "You'll have to go elsewhere."

"No." I shut the door behind me with a loud bang, glaring at him defiantly.

Startled, he looks up at me wide-eyed from his position on the floor. "Why did you shu—"

I cut him off with a hand. "If we are going to have to stay in this motel for two nights, some of your traditions are going to have to change. Firstly, this bathroom is for both of us to use."

He's shaking his head.

"Don't you think I want to use a clean bathroom as well?" I ask him, irritated.

"Yes, but—"

"Okay, then. I'm leaving. You can stay here alone. I'll come pick you up in two days." Without delay, I spin around and open the bathroom door, stomping over to my suitcase to close it back up. I go over to the bed and throw my car keys, makeup bag, and change purse in the general direction of my bag as well. He'll be coming out any minute now….

He appears at the threshold, looking a bit withdrawn and holding his hands up in surrender. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry, but _you_ know how I am. Would it _really_ be so hard to just—use someone _else's _bathroom?"

As he finishes up talking, I walk by him with my suitcase in hand, and I unlock the room door. He puts an arm out to stop me, and I look over at him tiredly.

"What are you doing?" I say. "I told you; I'm leaving. If you can't compromise—"

"How is that a _compromise_?" he cries. "You're getting your way, and I'm not!"

"Well, now you're getting your way. Move your arm." I try to push past him.

"No—" he insists. He looks back toward where my suitcase was lying, and points at something. "You can't go anywhere anyway; you left your keys—"

I attempt to turn around quickly to retrieve them, but the bulky suitcase hits the doorway and Monk expertly avoids making contact with it as he snatches my keys from atop his luggage.

"You'd better give me those keys," I say dangerously. I squat to lower the suitcase, then realize how filthy the floor is. He's flashing me a mischievous smile, and his eyes narrow, like he's trying to challenge me or something. Does he have any idea how _annoyed _I am right now?

"Or what?" he says playfully, swinging them on one finger. I walk towards him slowly, glaring at him as he backs toward the window. Once I'm near the dresser, I swing my bag back where it was, and lunge at him.

He squirms past, keeping clear of me, but the room is so cluttered he has nowhere to go. I'm standing by the left-hand corner of the bed after the initial attack, and he's hunched over by the heater clutching the keys more tightly now. As I charge at him again, he slips past me quite gracefully, dashing past the dresser, but I catch him by his left sleeve as he attempts to run through the narrow passageway between dresser and bed. A struggle ensues as I try to grab his other hand, where the keys are clenched in his fist. He's being amazingly playful in this game of cat-and-key, and I can see a glimmer in his eye as he twists the key hand away from me. I, on the other hand, am rolling my eyes, frustrated at this game he's made it into.

He's tucking the arm behind his back and passing it between his hands when I hear my car alarm go off. We pause from our struggle, and I sigh with exasperation at the annoying honking. Realizing that his own horseplay had set it off, Monk brings his hand out to the front and opens his fingers, revealing the keyless entry. I immediately take advantage of this opportunity and snatch my keys away, leaving him in shock.

I click the alarm button again, shutting off the horn, as I grab the handle of the suitcase once more. I'm significantly calmer than I had been initially, but I don't want him to see that.

"Okay, okay," he mutters, holding his hands up. "—You can use my bathroom… but only for emer—"

The look I give him causes him to sigh, and begin again. "A-alright… you can use it when you want to—j-just don't leave, okay?"

I nod vigorously, and toss my keys over my shoulder as I walk back to the bathroom, feeling more confident about Monk's capacity to return to _normalcy_, since I've convinced him to change such an integral part of his lifestyle. I then realize the problem we'll be having later on, and suddenly don't feel quite as triumphant.

We delve into the cleaning process. Every few seconds, my employer comments on my work, which always happens to be negative in nature, instructing me to rub horizontally instead of vertically or some other little quirky detail about mineral removal.

He uses a ridiculous amount of bleach to scrub the linoleum floor and the tiles on the wall. The bucket water is a sickening white from all the strong stuff. After putting on the latex gloves, he proceeds to dip the mop in the bleach solution and absolutely soak the floor with it.

"Now, I can't see how that can be sanitary," I say.

He looks up, astounded that I am commenting on his cleanliness. It's probably the first time ever that he's been told that he's being unsanitary.

"What are you talking about?" he cries. "I'm soaking the floor in the bleach first, and then I'm going to mop it up, and _then_ I'm going to reapply a more potent solution of bleach to _really_ get in there and kill those germs…. Only then can I rinse it away knowing it's as clean as it can get."

"I think at that point you and I will both be unconscious." I fan my hand in front of my face, disgusted at the noxious chlorine vapors that are rising from the bucket. "That bleach is going to give us both brain damage; do you know that?"

He sighs and continues to apply the water-soaked mop head to the grimy linoleum. I have successfully removed the rust ring from around the tub, and am now rubbing down the fissure between the wall and the ceramic of the bathroom fixture. I can see that the sealant has been peeling away, allowing for large deposits of lime and probably mildew as well, by the green color, to pile up.

Apparently Monk has never had to do the job I am now doing, for he doesn't say a word, even though he occasionally glances over.

An hour has passed and the mineral deposits are gone from the bathtub, but Monk is still on his first coat of bleach on the floor.

I am getting fed up with his immense slowness, and request the bleach bucket. "Why?" he asks, completely oblivious to just how long he is taking.

"If you want a decent-looking shower-head, Mr. Monk, you'll get me a bucket so that I can soak it in the CLR and get this crap off." I hold up the grotesque thing for him to see. He diverts his eyes from the sight and leaves the room immediately, returning with the other bucket. I guess he _can_ be prompt, after all. I leap out of the bathtub, where I have been standing waaay too long, and emerge from the noxious fumes that have filled the tiny room.

After I soak the showerhead in the CLR for a couple of minutes, I take the clean fixture back into the bathroom, where Mr. Monk is sitting on the rim of the bathtub slouched over, with his head between his legs.

"Mr. Monk!" I cry, squatting down in front of him, forgetting about the dizzying odor. "Are you alright?"


	4. Mystery Woman

He doesn't respond, allowing his head to dangle in that fearful way. I decide to get behind him, in the tub, and pull his upper body back up.

As I reach around his waist to get a good grip, he jerks his head up, catching me off guard, and I begin to slip. I know that I am going to fall really hard and crack my head off of the rim of the tub and probably bleed to death, but I also happen to notice the detective springing to his feet.

Even though my eyes are closed and my hands are waving futilely to grab onto something, I can tell I'm going to hit soon. I can see the end now: I either get brain damage from hitting my head, become a quadriplegic from breaking my spine, or die right away from cracking apart my brainstem. It'll be an open casket funeral, but there will be tons of pillows, creepy but _soft _death pillows, all around my mangled skull, and Julie will probably…. Oh, God, I don't even want to imagine….

Instead of the sharp jolt of pain and the inevitable blackness of unconsciousness I am expecting, I am caught by a pair of strong arms. There's absolutely no pain to the sudden stop of my fall; the rescuer has expertly been able to avoid having any part of my back, neck, or head hit the hard ceramic. My butt and feet hit the ground, but big deal, that's what they're for. Seconds pass, seeming like hours, and I slowly open my eyes to find that it is Adrian who has saved me. I can feel his hand on the back of my head, and the other on my upper back. He's staring at me wide-eyed, with this look of utter fear and concern, and his face is verrrrry close to mine.

I am still out of it, and I attempt to stand, only to slip again, but his hands don't move from their positions. "Mr. Monk," I say, half gaping in the process, "you saved me."

The expression on his face, which is probably only a few inches away, alters from a look of fear to one of relief. He doesn't say anything, but I can see a smile slowly crossing his face. As I grin back at him, I reach out and clutch the sides of the tub with my hands, pulling myself into a seated position. It is now that he removes his hands from me, now that he realizes I'm not dizzy anymore.

Wow, am I pitiful. Falling in this stupid tub, with my _shoes_ on, no less. Apparently Adrian doesn't feel the same way, for he's still smiling with relief, and not humor or disdain, at the situation. Wait? Am I calling him Adrian now? Did I say it out loud? No, I don't believe so, but I think maybe I feel closer to him, now that he has saved my life…. Not that he hadn't done so when I was dangling off the back of the dump truck... but it was still so early and I hadn't actually seen his face as he was hanging out of the police car. Maybe it's different now because it was such a close call, and I mean close as in proximity, that I feel this way. It _does_ have a nice ring to it, _Adrian_…. Hmmmmm….

He starts to stand up again as I slowly pull myself to my feet. Once I am standing, he offers me a hand to get out of the tub, and even though I am shocked by this, I take it, and carefully step out of the death-vat. Now I'm uncomfortable. Should I try to hug him? I would with anyone else, but maybe it'd be okay to ask, since he _did _offer me his bare hand.

"Mr. Monk?" I say breathlessly. It comes out sounding way too fragile for my taste, and he can sense this, for he's studying my face. When he finally makes eye contact with me, I go to say it. "Can I hug you?" His shoulders twitch a bit, and I can tell I've made him uncomfortable.

"I'm sorry," I say, straightening out my jeans. I assume he'll back out into the hallway soon, to regain a comfort zone. This bathroom really is too small for such a question.

Instead of his retreat, he opens his mouth to speak. "No, don't be sorry," he mumbles quietly. "You can hug me… that is— if you want t—"

I step forward and put my arms around him, pressing my head against his chest. His voice chokes off at my sudden move, and he just stands there stiffly as I continue to embrace him, and then softly, ever so softly, he pats my back. I take this as a signal that he's getting anxious, so I release my hold and step away from him, continuing to smile.

His face is now flushed, and he doesn't make eye contact with me, instead turning to head into the main room. I guess that's understandable. I scared him, that's all. But did he wipe his hand off after I grabbed it? Maybe that's what he is going to do, and he doesn't want me to see it.

I go out into the main room, where he is opening up his suitcase. I notice two pictures shoved in the mesh pocketing on the inside. "What are those pictures of?" I ask him, walking towards him. He shuts it quickly.

"Pictures?" he stammers weakly, clicking the handle of his luggage back together.

"Yeah, I saw two pictures… in your suitcase just now…." He's giving me a sheepish look now. Is he embarrassed? "Mr. Monk, you don't have to be ashamed," I say reassuringly.

"It's…not…that…." he mumbles, squeezing past me to finish up the bathroom floor.

I sit on the bed, contemplating whether or not to bother him about the pictures, because I can't help being curious as to what they are. He seems a little _too_ touchy about them. I open the bathroom door to find him trying to remove the excess bleach-water from the floor.

"Mr. Monk," I say. "Why don't you take a break from the bleach? It obviously bothered you before, when you were sitting on the edge of the tub."

"No, it didn't," he murmurs. "There was a—I was just…thinking…."

"You're always thinking," I reply, closing the door once more.

Over the next couple of hours, I scrub the mildew off of the curtains, vacuum the entire room, and attempt to remove some of the grosser-looking stains, which I find to be the most stubborn as well. Adrian is still in the bathroom, probably finishing up on the second coat of bleach-water. Oh well, I gotta let him do what he wants, or he'll never be satisfied.

He emerges from the bathroom with the bucket and jug of bleach, three hours after my visit/fall. I look up at him from my spot on the floor, where I have been kneeling for a long time, using the latex gloves as knee pads. I will _not _allow for any part of my body to directly touch the floor, even though I _have_ successfully removed a decent amount of crud.

"So, is the bathroom all done?" I ask, knowing just what to expect: a no.

"Well…." It's his signature phrase of uncertainty. Here goes; he's going to tell me that he's run out of bleach. "Actually," he adds, lifting the bucket, "I finished the floor… and the walls…. But before I went to clean out the tub, I read on the CLR label that it should never be combined with bleach. So…." He looks down at his feet.

"Mr. Monk," I say, rising to my feet. "That's only if you pour them into the same container."

"—But the tub is a container," he blurts.

"After I used the CLR, I rinsed it completely off the tub and the shower stall. There _is_ no CLR to combine with the bleach."

"Are you sure? Because I don't want to d—"

"Do you want me to use the bleach on the tub? _I'm_ not worried about it."

He shakes his head. "No, I have to be sure about the—" He notices a microscopic stain on the floor that I had just happened to overlook. I stare at him, waiting for his attention to return to the subject at hand, but it doesn't. It's amazing how he can be in his own little world in a matter of seconds, and not be able to emerge.

I can't even see the supposed spot that he is focused on, although I lean forward to the point of almost losing my balance. "I couldn't get out _everything_," I say, and he is immediately disgusted.

"Well, give me the cleaner and I'll get it out," he states. Was that confidence I heard?

I hand him the spray bottle, forgetting in my glove-wearing numbness the cleaner solution dripping down the sides of the container. He now has the wet bottle in his hand, and is giving me this look of extreme resentment. I hastily take it back, and wipe it off with the rag.

"Here," I say, holding it out to him again. He doesn't accept it. "Here," I repeat.

"Y-you've been scrubbing the floor with that rag. It's even filthier than the cleaner…."

"Let's hope so," I remark. I accept the fact that my work will never satisfy him. I kneel back down onto the floor and continue my scrubbing, and he silently retreats into the bathroom once more.

We continue cleaning, scrubbing, dusting, and polishing for hours and hours until my hands have blisters all over them and I am completely exhausted. Hating my sweatiness, I kick my shoes off at the bathroom threshold and head into the sparkling clean room with my shower supplies and pajamas to get a quick shower. I have forgotten that Adrian is still in here, for he turns around suddenly, flashing me this puzzled look from his spot in front of the sink where he has been polishing the mirror with the Windex. He has removed his shoes as well, but he is still wearing his dress socks.

"I'm going to take a shower now, Mr. Monk," I tell him. "That mirror is good enough for now."

"But—I thought _I _was goi—"

"You've been in here for hours. Aren't you tired of this room yet?" That's one thing I don't understand. He's claustrophobic, yet he's been in this 6 x 8 room for hours on end.

"No, it's not that," he replies. "I have to take a shower first."

"Why? You're not even prepared."

"You _have _to let me go first," he explains. "If you go first, I'll have to sterilize the tub again, and then I won't get any sleep, and…." He trails off, hoping he's made his point, I assume. I'm proud of him to be able to admit that he has a problem, even though he's not phrasing it in that exact way.

"Well, what about _you_?" I say. "I'm sure _you're_ dirty and sweaty as well. What makes you think _I_ want to stand in there after you?"

"—But you're not like me…." he mumbles. "I need to know it's completely clean before I can even think abou—"

"Okay, okay," I reply, raising my hands in surrender. "You can go first. But please come out here and get your stuff. I don't want to wait all night."

"Right now?"

I tap my bare foot on the linoleum. "Well, if you don't want to go right now, then_ I_ will."

He sighs, slumping his shoulders in defeat, and slips past me without making contact with me or the stuff I'm holding. He must be a lot thinner than he appears to be in the boxy blazers he always wears. I can see that he's about to step on the carpet, when he realizes he is not wearing his shoes.

Slowly, he lowers himself to a squat and proceeds to slip each shoe on. Afterwards, he begins to tie them in such a complicated way that I almost want to shove him over so he _has_ to touch the carpet, because precious minutes are killed and _no one_ has taken a shower yet.

After he manages to get his shoes tied, he walks over to his suitcase. I put my shoes back on as I stare at the spot where those pictures will be, and make my way over as he lifts the lid.

He sees me coming and immediately lowers the lid again. "You know," he says, "it's rude to stare at someone's luggage."

"I'd ask you where you came up with that," I reply, "but I don't want to waste any more time."

I continue to watch his suitcase until he can't stand it anymore, and he turns so his back is facing me and his luggage is blocked from view.

As he lifts the lid again, I stand on tiptoe and can see that one of the pictures is indeed Trudy, as I had suspected. I have seen pictures of his late wife all over his house, just like I keep pictures of Mitch everywhere. This really strikes a chord with me, that he carries a picture with her on trips, because I happen to have pictures of Mitch taped to the visor of the Cherokee, stuck in the corner of my bathroom mirror, and hanging on the walls of every room of my home.

All the pictures I've seen of Trudy are quite youthful; she looks to have been younger than me in all of them, and she is very pretty. It's horrible to think that when a person dies, they are forever frozen in time. You'll never be able to imagine them as an old person, or as a grandfather or grandmother, but will only see them as the people in the pictures that you keep with you as a reminder of their eternal youth. When it finally sinks in that they are gone for good, that's when you hope that there really is a heaven, so you can see them again. I'd do anything just to see Mitch one more time…

It's hard to believe that Adrian has pulled through all these years, not even having a child from his marriage to Trudy to continue life with. It's definitely made coping a lot easier for me, knowing that there is still a piece of Mitch I still have with me, our child Julie, and that she has a future with me. I'll watch her grow up, and maybe she'll resemble Mitch in some ways, or maybe she'll say something that Mitch would have said; these constant reminders of him in our child together will never allow his memory to fade from my heart.

It is then that I notice the other picture. It's of Adrian and a pretty blonde woman, but this woman is stockier than Trudy, with a pile of curls high atop her head, and wearing very tight clothing. She has his arm around him and he's smiling and leaning in towards her. Could it be that he has a girlfriend I don't know about?

He doesn't realize that I can see the pictures, as he is in the process of digging for his toiletries. I am still staring at the picture pinned behind the mesh with the mystery woman and him. She and the detective appear to be very close, and obviously hold lots of affection for each other. They are actually both leaning towards each other, and it seems like a very mutual relationship. Let's face it; he's letting her put her hand behind his back!

It is now that Adrian notices I am staring at the pictures, and he hastily closes the suitcase, knocking over the bottle of shampoo he had standing up inside.

I nudge his shoulder. "So, who's the mystery woman?" I say, trying to sound casual, although I'm quite excited to know.

He gapes at me. "_Mystery_ woman?" he mumbles. "I don't know what you are t—"

"The woman with the curly hair… and the miniskirt."

* * *

To be continued... Review! 


	5. Showers and Sheets

His face is actually turning red. I just want to drag the response out of him, for he is practically glaring at me in a stunned silence; this question obviously bothers him.

"Oh…" he trails off, seemingly realizing who she is. "She must have stuck that in there, because I didn't even know it was—"

"Who is it? Is it an old girlfriend?" I say, ridiculously curious.

After more dirty looks and roundabout answers from the detective, whom I have already established as the worst liar ever, I reach for the suitcase and throw open its lid, exposing the pictures.

I point at the picture of the curly-haired blonde. "What's her name?" I feel a little immature at my persistence, but it's easy to be intrigued by such an enigma.

"That's… Sharona Fleming…." he says, sighing as he speaks, seemingly apologetic. "My old assistant."

"Ohhh," I reply, finally satisfied. "Looks like you two were really close…."

He's taken aback by this comment, and is struck speechless. His face is as red as ever, and he attempts to loosen his shirt collar with a trembling hand.

"—Why do you say that?" he manages to ask.

I am flabbergasted. Were these two _not_ close? Hmm…

"Well, you two look very comfortable with each other," I begin. "You're letting her put her arm around you, and you both look genuinely happy."

After an awkward silence, he speaks up again. "It's strange why she stuck that picture in the—"

It's obvious that he's lying. "Mr. Monk, I know you put it there, and it's okay," I interrupt, touching his arm. "I'm very happy that you two were close; it shows me that you're not _completely _detached from people."

He shrugs in an extremely uncomfortable way and resumes his search for toiletries in the suitcase without saying another word. I glance at the picture a moment longer, then grab the remote control from the top of the television and switch on the T.V. to the _Hallmark_ channel that we had been watching. I'm not going to slow him up any more with comments or staring. If he doesn't want me to mention his old assistant, then he shouldn't put a picture of her in his luggage. Oh well. I take a seat on the bed, and turn on the _Lifetime_ channel. It's odd how a garbage-heap motel like this can actually have decent programming.

The 'television for women' channel is enough to hurry Adrian up, for he's now stacking his clothes on one side of the suitcase feverishly in attempt to unearth his soap, and whatever else he uses to shower. Within five minutes of my turning on the station, he has grabbed his bar of Zest soap, his nightclothes and socks, a rag and towel, and his shampoo and conditioner. As soon as I suppose that he is holding all that he needs, he adds some shaving cream and a razor to the stack, attempting to hide them from my view by shoving them in the towel.

After a brief annoyed glance in my direction, although not quite making eye contact, he heads off to the bathroom. Once he has slipped off his shoes and placed them parallel to each other by the threshold, he enters the tiny room and shuts the door. I assume I'll hear the water starting up soon, but instead I hear the door continually shutting and opening back up with a creak, and the detective's failed efforts to lock it. Apparently the door doesn't lock….

I am able to tolerate the continuous sound of clicks, creaks, and bangs for a matter of five minutes or so, but my head begins to ache after that time period.

I slide off the bed and walk over to the bathroom, where Adrian is still opening and closing the door. I wait for him to open it the slight distance inward and then shut it, and once he does this, I grab the doorknob and pull it towards me.

The next time he attempts to open the door, he fails, for I am holding it on the other side. "Oh my God, I'm trapped—" His cries are muffled behind the door, as he is now beginning to panic. I can sense he'll be getting quite vocal soon if I don't explain what has just happened, so I open the door….

He is standing squarely in front of the door as it swings open, with his shirt unbuttoned and beads of sweat forming along his hairline. He jumps back at the sight of me, almost falling back onto the toilet in the process. I immediately put my hands up with palms toward him, hoping the gesture of surrender will calm him.

"Mr. Monk, as you and I are aware now, this door doesn't lock." I gesture towards the brass fixture.

He's staring fearfully at the doorknob like it's a chained-up junkyard dog or something. "It… has to lock," he murmurs, continuing to stare at the offending object.

I step forward, and he proceeds to retreat again, bumping the back of his knees on the toilet and falling upon the closed toilet seat. He's now looking up at me from the seat with horror in his eyes, clutching his shirt together with white knuckles.

"How about this?" I say matter-of-factly. "I _promise_ not to come in here. In fact, I'll let you put a chair against the door, to ensure that I don't come in." I wait for his response, which I hope is soon, because I really feel disgusting right now.

He shakes his head. "I… can't shower, knowing that anyone can walk right in here," he mutters quietly.

"Mr. Monk, our room door is locked. The only person who could ever walk in here is me, and I _assure_ you that I won't."

He rises slowly, eyes darting around the room. "I can't do it…. It's just not possible…." I am getting quite fed up now; this is just pathetic. I grab him by his arm and pull him with me, out of the bathroom.

"Well, if you can't handle it then I'm taking a shower right now," I remark, and I drag him over to my suitcase where I proceed to open it and get my shower supplies out.

"No! No! Stop! Please! My socks! Oh God…" he yelps, yanking his arm away from mine and making his way on tiptoe for the bathroom again. Oops. I forgot he didn't have his shoes on.

I slip around him quickly with my supply pile and cut him off at the door. "You can't shower in here, remember? _I'm_ going now."

"W-w-wait," he stutters, putting his hands up as a sign to stop. "Germs trump the fear of my getting walked in on… so it'd be better for me to shower first." He attempts to slip past me and stand on the threshold in his socks, but I am centered in the doorway, and so there's no way he can squeeze by.

I glare at him from the coveted position. "So you _are_ going to shower?" I ask him, crossing my arms, and he makes eye contact with me finally.

"Yes," he mumbles, discouraged.

"Will you leave the door alone and take your shower?" I say hastily, hoping he'll say no so that I can commence with my shower. It doesn't bother me if he has a speck of dirt on him, which I'm sure is the case.

He's unsure of how to respond, and so he begins to re-button his shirt in remembrance. I take this response as a no, so I turn around and act as if I'm going to enter the room. I then feel his arm grabbing my shoulder.

I turn around to find him in frustrated mode, giving me this look of death. "Okay, I'll leave the door alone…."

"Promise?"

He nods his head, more than a little upset. "Yes," he responds.

I squeeze past him again, allowing him to enter the room. He shuts the door and finally I hear him starting the water.

After reestablishing myself on the bed and turning _Lifetime_ back on, I proceed to watch the washed-up actors and actresses recite lines seemingly from soap operas in their feminist tales of woe and deceit. It's during the first commercial that I am able to hear that the detective is now showering, for the water is coming down in spurts, making dribbling sounds as the path of it is deflected. Thank goodness.

I must actually fall asleep during the time he is showering, for he startles me out of my reverie in the journey to his luggage once he's done. He's wearing long-sleeved maroon pajamas with his dress shoes and a different pair of socks, and I can't help but let out a giggle at the sight. As he puts his toiletries back into his suitcase and lines up the cleaners precisely, he takes a seat on the bed, giving me a strange look.

I realize that it is now 10:30 at night and so I hurry into the bathroom with my supplies and take a quick fifteen-minute shower, not even bothering to wash my hair. I had accidentally left my shampoo/conditioner bottle in the main room anyway. Upon my emergence from the bathroom, I find that Adrian is digging around in his suitcase again.

"What are you looking for?" I say, startling him in his search.

"Uhm.… well… a night…light," he manages to murmur, and I can't help but gape.

"I'm not going to be able to sleep with a nightlight, Mr. Monk," I say, annoyed at his strange sleeping habits. He continues to dig, not even acknowledging my comment, and I strip the bed of its comforter. Maybe he doesn't like my pajamas. They are cutesy, with little white clouds all over the blue flannelish fabric, and the top is a little too skimpy even for my taste, but oh well, it had been on the top of my drawer, and it matches the pants.

He spins around, facing me, obviously in absolute shock at my removal of the bedding. I ignore him, continuing to remove the blankets and spotted-up sheets as he stares, and folding each bedding article neatly into perfect squares. I then pull the new sheets out of the garbage bag that Disher had brought us, and shake them out over the bed. The detective has already replaced the motel's pillowcase with his own navy blue one.

Adrian continues to gape as I put on the fitted sheet and smooth it out over the mattress. I didn't expect him to help me, so I'm not surprised at all. Even though I squeeze past him several times to tuck the sheets in on the other side of the bed, he doesn't say a word. Only when I begin to shake the other sheet out does he decide to make his presence known.

As I am tucking the sheet under the mattress, I can tell the detective is probably staring a hole through me, for he is still standing in the same place and hasn't moved a muscle. He makes a throat-clearing sound, but I act as if I don't hear it. I put the motel's blanket back on the bed, tucking it in as well, and, as I slip past him, he sticks an arm out, halting me at waistline.

Once he realizes what he has touched, he jerks his hand back, but I do look at him this time. "What is it?" I say innocently. I cross back over to the right side of the bed, removing and replacing the motel's pillowcase with the one in the bag, watching him carefully the entire time.

"W-what are you doing?" he asks breathlessly.

"Fixing the bed for tonight," I say. "Those sheets are disgusting."

"Thank you for noticing," he replies, "but I use my own pillowcase—and I don't sleep on that side of the bed."

"I know that," I say, waiting his response. This is going to be interesting, breaking the news to him.

"Then—why—how do you kn—why are you doing that then?" he manages to blurt.

"Well, to answer your first question, I figured most men sleep on the left side of the bed. Mitch always did. My father does. As for the second question—" I pause momentarily, knowing that he will not like the next thing I'm going to say. "—that's _my_ pillowcase."

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	6. Persuasion

"What are you sa—you can't be serious," he mumbles, paling considerably. "You are not sleeping with—in this bed." He's shaking his head the whole time, crossing over to the left side of the bed.

"What do you propose I do then, Mr. Monk?" I say, as I pull the sheet and blanket back to get in. I might as well speed up the process. Hopefully this doesn't resort to physical violence, of him actually trying to force me out of the bed.

"There's… the floor," he says. "You can use the old sheets, and the comforter, and the—"

"That floor is horrible!" I exclaim. "I will not sleep there! If you can't handle me being in this bed, then _you_ can sleep on the floor!"

I start to slip my knee under the sheets, but the detective quickly hops onto the left side of the bed and pushes me away with an outstretched arm.

"You must not have cleaned it very well then…" he mutters, glancing down at the floor. I can feel the anger rising in my throat. This is not going to be pretty, if this predicament doesn't work out fast.

"I cleaned it as well as I could," I state, "but there are still stains. I don't trust it…."

"But aren't there cots? There _has_ to be a cot you can borr—"

"No, Mr. Monk," I say sternly. "I already inquired."

"When? Maybe there's one available now."

"I'm sure there isn't." I cross my arms and glare at him.

"Uhm, how about I move the television and luggage, and you can sleep on the dresser?" he offers timidly, gesturing towards it. The look I give him answers his question.

"Well, I'm going home then," he states, slipping back off the bed. "I can't do this…. Sharona was with me for years and we _never_—"

"Were you and Sharona in this very same situation?" I say angrily. He gapes at me, but doesn't say anything. "That's right; I didn't think so. You would have had to do it then, just as you're going to have to do it now." He doesn't acknowledge my reply.

I watch him go to his suitcase again, and place its contents back in order. I let him shut his bag and fill the garbage bag with the cleaners and supplies. The silence between us is deafening.

As he approaches the door with suitcase in one hand, and the garbage bag slipping on his other hand, I finally speak.

"We can't go anywhere," I say flatly.

"Why not?" He doesn't even turn around.

"I can't find the keys anywhere," I say. "They seem to have disappeared into thin air."

Fifteen minutes later, and we are still in the same dilemma. I know that he wants to look through my luggage, but I've already searched through it and am sure that the Cherokee keys are not there.

He steps out in the hallway, shuffling his shoes on the ruined carpet, and I count the seconds it takes for him to return to the room. Fifteen.

"You're going to have to find another room," he states, as he reenters the bedroom.

I slip off my shoes and get into the right side of the bed, throwing the covers over myself. "You can find another room," I say, "or else deal with it."

"You know," he chides, shaking his finger, "Sharona said something very similar to that to me during the course of a whole day –well, I started it—although she didn't use the exact wor—"

"I don't really care," I snap. "I'm tired, and I'm going to sleep on these _clean_ sheets." The mattress _is_ rather comfortable, in a broken-in sort of way.

He stares at me for a few seconds, perhaps expecting me to change my mind and get out, but when I turn over to face the other wall, he begins to pace back and forth. This is a losing battle for him. Why does this bother him so much anyway? It's _just like_ watching a show together on a couch and falling asleep. There's unconsciousness involved, which is a _very_ safe state of mind. Besides, there's nothing else we can do about it; I'd prefer not to do this, but we're stranded here and we have to make do with what we have. Even if I did find the keys right now, we are miles from the next motel and I really don't like driving at night in unfamiliar places, especially one like _Death_ Valley.

The motel's sheets and comforter are in a neat pile atop the television, and he reaches for them, but jerks back at knowing they are the _motel's_. This internal conflict continues for a good while, because I nod off for probably a half hour or so. I'm awakened by his accidental kicking of the bedpost as he makes his way to the bathroom with the stack of motel sheets. He sucks in a breath of air so loudly at the painful contact, it rouses me even further, and I sit up to gaze at him under my heavy eyelids.

"What are you doing?" I say groggily, watching him cringe.

"W-why don't you take these sheets… and sleep in the bathtub?" he offers, a little too eagerly. He bends down to rub his foot.

I sit up quickly, allowing my hair to cover my face. "Oh, that sounds _really_ comfortable," I spout. I stare at him from his place in front of the dresser. "I fixed this bed, and I'm sleeping in it. Simple as that."

"Well… let me refix it then…." He states, making his way to untuck the corner of the bed.

"Don't you dare touch it!" I exclaim, making him flinch and reconsider.

He goes to touch the stack of motel sheets again and jerks his hand back again. This room really does suck. There are no chairs or couches: just the bed, the dresser, and a nightstand, where I've put my alarm clock. I watch him a while longer, actually beginning to feel pity for him, for he's been at this for a good hour now. I pat the blanket on the left side of the bed, and he looks up from his concentrated effort to find a sleeping-place.

"Sit here, Mr. Monk," I say kindly, for intimidation and anger is exactly what will keep him awake all night, and I don't want that. We…—well, he—has to work on this investigation tomorrow, and Stottlemeyer will blame me if my employer is sleep-deprived.

The detective stares at my hand, and shakes his head slowly. "There's no harm in sitting on the bed," I state.

"I… can't…." he blurts.

"Well, why not?"

"It's a… bed…. And… you're in it…. And… there's only one blanket…. No—I just can't do that to Trudy…." He trails off, apparently giving me excuses he deems valid enough for his behavior.

"Listen, Mr. Monk," I say, leaning forward as he continues to stand still, "Both you and I will be unconscious the whole night. I'll keep to my side of the bed, and you will keep to your side. Trudy was once your bedmate, as Mitch was mine, so I can understand that. But even if they _were_ still alive, this is a completely platonic thing and neither one of them would be angry."

He's devastated by this choice. "I'll never be able to forgive myself for—"

"You're not going to be cheating on Trudy, okay!" I exclaim. "We are being forced to do this, and we'll be sleeping the entire time!"

"But I might have to go to the bathroo—"

"You know what I mean," I say hastily, and pat the bed again. "I _promise _I will stay on my side. You need to get decent sleep tonight; it's already midnight."

He approaches the bed timidly, like it's a land mine or something. "Sit here, Mr. Monk," I say quietly and carefully, as I pat the mattress. "It's okay…."

He's staring at me incredulously now, which tells me he may be in some state of acceptance. I turn away from him to allow him some privacy in his moment of choice, and I can feel the mattress sink a bit as he takes a seat on it, slipping his shoes and socks off.

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	7. The Case Continues

Once he is seated and has stopped his initial nervous fidgeting, I look over at him again. He's staring down at his feet, which are now bare, probably feeling extremely vulnerable. It's impossible to know what to say.

"Good job," I say to the petrified man. "You can lie down now, I'm going to sleep. I'm sorry for being mean to you earlier; I was just really fed up with this place. Goodnight." I turn over onto my left side and face away from him, hoping he won't get out of the bed and return to his pacing, insomniac state.

I hear some shifting and squeaking of the mattress, and I very slowly pull the covers to chest-level.

"Natalie," the curly-haired man says, and I turn over, watching him squirm in his upright position against the headboard. "I-I can't do this…"

"Yes you can," I say. "This is much easier to do then standing in front of hundreds of people on a stage or walking through a sewer." I grab his shirtsleeve and yank it gently. "Just… scoot down the bed, and lay back."

He's looking at me like I'm crazy. There's this blatantly obvious look of fear in his eyes, which are now wild with horror.

"Please… Mr. Monk…. You need your sleep. Please… just lay down…." I'm turning into a beggar, but I'm really tired and don't think I can take more of his indecisiveness.

He shifts his butt down the bed a bit, but is still sitting straight-backed _on_ the motel's blanket.

"You should get under the sheets," I say, with a bit of motherly sternness. "They are much cleaner than the blanket is."

He pulls his sleeves down over his hands and uses one hand to prop his body up, and the other to yank the covers towards the foot of the bed. Another uncomfortable-looking movement, and the sheets are covering his feet. Now he's stuck. He's going to be under the same sheets that I'm under, oh my…. I'm getting a headache from rolling my eyes so much at the absurdity of the situation….

I turn away from him again, and can tell he is pulling the sheets up to his waist. He's still seated; I can see his shadow on the wall from the moonlit window.

"Natalie," he mutters, almost at a whisper, "could you pull the covers up?"

I flip onto my back, giving him a bit of a glare. "What are you talking about?"

"Your shoulders…" He points at them. "They're bare…."

"So?" I sigh deeply.

"They are… nakedish…."

"I'll cover up if you lay down," I state flatly.

He begins to slowly sink into the bed as I watch him from my low vantage point flat upon the mattress. Once he is lying fully on the mattress I turn over once more, hopefully for the last time, and pull the covers up around my neck. I usually snuggle in them anyway, but the room is a bit too stuffy and warm for my taste.

"Goodnight, Natalie," he whispers, turning onto his right side, away from me.

"Goodnight, A—Mr. Monk," I say, almost slipping. I hear him chuckle in a deep voice. Apparently my flub-up is funny to him, but at least he's comfortable enough to find humor in it.

"You know," he says. "Now that we _are_ going to be… 'sleeping' together… you can call me Adrian—that is, if you'd like to…."

I smile at his comment. He really can be, what do you call it, sweet, when he wants to be. "Alright then," I murmur. "Goodnight, Adrian."

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_Trudy has joined me tonight, in the flesh_, the detective muses, gazing lovingly at the silhouette of his wife and her tousled blonde hair spread out over her pillow. _Oh, God, how much I've missed her…She always has and always will mean everything in the world to me, and now she's returned to me, hopefully for good… I have to touch her; I have to feel her once again, her warmth against me, her breathing in rhythm with my own. Oh, we had such a connection, a beautiful, perfect connection. I'll never forget each night I spent with her in those seven wonderful years, and all the love we shared… holding hands all night, embracing each other until we awoke the next glorious and perfect morning. She's really truly here with me…_

He watches the side of his wife rise and fall rhythmically as she breaths the night air quietly in her dreaming state. _She's even breathing with me now, as we share our bed once more._ He slides silently and stealthily across the bed, as cautiously as possible so as not to wake his beloved Trudy. Ever so discreetly, he slips his arm around his wife, and feels her soft curves once more, letting his hand find the spot where he had always placed it each night. She sighs quietly, snuggling up to him, her mouth curled into a smile, as he nestles against her body, breathing in the scent of her hair, which always did possess a characteristic odor that still remains in the pillow she had used. He is well acquainted with that scent, for he takes time to smell it every night at home, before he goes to sleep. _Everything is so perfect, lying next to her, as it had always been when she was still with me. If I can continue this dream forever, please let me never wake again… _

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I feel the soft warmth of breathing on the back of my neck, and a gentle shifting of the covers as the sleeping man snuggles up behind me. It is Mitch, and his body fits perfectly with mine, for there he is, barely making bodily contact with me, yet radiating a cozy heat along the length of my entire body. It is heaven, this feeling of peace that his presence gives me; I'm back home with him in our bed, under the patchwork quilts that his mother had stitched for us as a gift on our wedding day. The mere sensations of his body pressed against mine brings back the flood of feelings I have been pushing away for so long, and I smile with a peacefulness I haven't been able to find in years.

With extreme delicacy and gentleness, he drapes an arm softly around my waist, and I can feel the fabric of his shirt lightly rubbing against my warmed skin. Ever so slowly, his hand runs along my hip, eventually establishing itself at my midriff, and I get the old-fashioned chills that I've missed so very much. I snuggle into his warmth, allowing him to bury his face in my hair and breathe silently on the back of my neck. All those perfect nights Mitch and I spent together, and now I'm able to experience one more…. What did I do, to deserve such a perfect moment once more? Such sweet breath I feel emanating from Mitch, with its pepperminty smell streaming through my hair at each quiet expiration. I smile, taking the joy and comfort of his presence in one last time….

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I wake the next morning feeling extremely well rested and satisfied. It has been quite awhile since I've gotten such fulfilling sleep. There even seems to be a glow about me, for I can feel that my face is flushed, warmed within the nest-like confines of the bedcovers. An arm is around my waist, and a body is pressed up against my own. Lifting the covers slightly, I notice the maroon sleeve and the man's hand in the hollow of my stomach, and am automatically confused, but so comfortable where I am that I don't feel like getting out of this position.

It is then that the man behind me stirs, smacking his lips together quietly as he slowly regains consciousness. He hasn't moved his arm yet, but snuggles into my neck and sighs one more time before straightening his body out, for his knees had been bent at the same angle as mine. I turn my head slightly to figure out who exactly is behind me, when he clears his throat and sighs vocally. Oh my God, it's Adrian Monk, my boss! I wonder how long we've been in this position! Did we sleep all night like this?

I must twitch slightly in my immediate panic, for he soon yelps, yanking his arm away from me and distancing himself from me on the other side of the bed. I sit up partially, facing him as he gapes at me in horror and embarrassment. I attempt to compose myself quickly. I mean, it wasn't so bad… I was very comfortable, I woke up completely refreshed and happy, and he _is_ very pleasant to sleep wi—Wait, he's my employer, and he's obsessive-compulsive and terribly germaphobic, so why was he so close to me? He had to come all the way over here from his side of the bed to touch me, and _then_ he puts his arm around me…. Maybe that's why he was so adamant on us sleeping apart…. So I take it he likes me… maybe?

"Adrian, it's alright," I manage to stutter, finding myself breathing heavily as I speak. He's still in panic mode, gawking at me and panting like a disobedient dog, as he uses his left hand to rub his right sleeve.

"You did nothing wrong," I say, pulling the covers up to chest-level again, for they slipped down when he jerked away.

"Yes, I did," he mutters, with zombie-like composure. "I had no right to—"

"You were _sleeping_ when you did it, Adrian," I reassure him. "You had no idea what you were doing."

"It doesn't matter," he replies, shaking his head and swallowing hard. "I crossed the line—"

"No you didn't," I say. "I slept just fine –the best sleep I've gotten in a long time, actually—and _nothing_ happened."

He bows his head, staring down at his legs. "I slept well too… the entire night, for once…." He allows his voice to trail off as his face reddens.

I smile at him. "Well, see there? It helped us both sleep. Now what's the harm in that?" I'm still feeling a bit strange, uncertain of how to look at him now. Every time I close my eyes, even for a split second, I can feel the extremely gentle and warm embrace of my widowed employer, and how perfect and natural it felt.

"You'll probably leave me now, won't you?" he says, ashamed of himself. "I-I guess I can… understand if you wa—"

"No, I'm not going to leave you," I say, sounding a little too insistent. "Especially not over something as harmless as that." Pulling myself up to a seated position, I lean towards him. "Adrian, what you did in your sleep tells me a lot about you—" He's gaping at me now in anxious anticipation—"and it's all _good_, so please don't worry about it anymore, okay?"

I can see him visibly relax, allowing his shoulders to go slack as he lets out a long breath of air. He's now smiling, and his whole face is infiltrated with the relief he must feel at my comment, even though his eyes seem distant.

"Are you telling me the truth?" he asks me, averting his distant gaze for a split second.

"Yes, completely," I reply quickly. I make an 'x' over my chest, in the old childlike fashion. "Cross my heart and hope to die, it's the truth." This conversation is getting _way_ too intense for my liking, for the little comments and postures he is making are affecting me a bit too much for some reason. I glance over at the alarm clock for a change of pace, and see that it is only 7:30 in the morning. "Why don't we go back to sleep?" I ask him in the best gravelly morning voice I can conjure. "It's too early…."

"No…" he states. "I… can't…. I—uhm—have to do… some things…." His smile is appearing on and off, and it seems to me that _he_ doesn't know what to think either.

I watch him search for his shoes that he has positioned by the side of the bed, and then he attempts a lying position to grab his footwear without having to touch the floor. I have to stifle a giggle at the silly pose he is making as he extends his arm to the ground, grunting with exertion. Eventually he grabs his shoes, slips them onto his bare feet, and shuffles over to the suitcase then to the bathroom with the clothes he chose for himself.

He closes the door behind him only one time and I sigh loudly, realizing that the earlier we get started, the better, and so I should get up as well. Maybe he'll figure this case out before tonight, although I'm not quite sure if I want that…. Gosh, what is _wrong_ with me?

After about fifteen minutes, he emerges from the bathroom smelling strongly of some kind of cologne. I had never known him to wear cologne, although he always does smell good in his own subtly fresh way.

Grumbling in the gravelly voice, I slip on my shoes and grab my shampoo/conditioner bottle, heading quickly into the bathroom. If I think too much about last night, I'll drive myself insane.

I see that the two towels used last night are identical, and can't remember for the life of me which side I happened to put mine on. They have both dried considerably, so there's no way to tell, but, heck, _I'm_ not going to say anything to him.

I kneel down in front of the spigot and turn on the taps. It's amazing how well the stainless steel came clean, for it looks brand new. The water soon heats up to the desired temperature, and I duck my head under, to begin.

All of a sudden, Adrian comes bursting in the room, almost tripping on me, making me jerk my head and hit the underside of the spigot.

"Oww," I mumble, rubbing the knot that has started to form on my scalp, and turning to look at the new impulsive Monk.

Apparently this scene of me kneeling by the tub is too much for him to bear. "Wha—what are you doing?" He's scared to death. "Why are you bent over the t—"

"What does it _look_ like I'm doing?" I remark. Can't he see that my head is soaking wet, and the bottle of shampoo is sitting by my hand? Watching his silent and wide-mouthed response, it is then that I realize he actually has no idea what I'm doing, or else is assuming something much worse.

"I'm washing my hair," I say, holding the bottle up. "I didn't wash it last night, so I'm doing it this way to avoid taking a complete shower again."

"Wh-what's wrong with more than one shower?" he asks, looking offended.

"Nothing is _wrong_ with it, I just don't want to take the time." Hopefully I've answered his question. "Why did you come in here?" I ask earnestly. It strikes me as strange that he didn't even knock before he came in. Was he _expecting_ me to be taking a shower? Oh gosh, my head is spinning….

"I—uhm—the guests…there was another death last night…they—they're all talking about it in the hallway…." He's signaling frantically towards the hallway, and he takes a couple of steps back, realizing he's still wearing his shoes on the clean floor.

"Alright," I reassure him as nicely as I can, with the new pain throbbing in my head, "I'll be out really soon."

"Well…" he stutters, "I ca—Captain Stottlemeyer said I can't leave the room without you…. So please hurry up…."

I squeeze the shampoo/conditioner combination into my hand, and rub it into my hair as he continues to stand above me in the doorway. Apparently he's a bit distressed watching this personal grooming, so he shuts the door, leaving the room completely after only a few seconds of my hair-washing routine.

I finish up washing and drying my hair in record time, and head out into the main room, where the detective has been fixing the bed. We pack some notebooks, writing utensils, and extra wipes into my oversized purse and head out into the main hallway. I then remember that I don't have my car keys, and immediately my mood is changed.

"Adrian," I state, as we close the room door behind us, "I think that the captain had someone take my keys, because I most certainly don't have them, as we found out last night."

"What are we supposed to do then? I need to get out of this motel," he says in a clear, urgent tone. I don't know what to say to him.

"Well, let's try to call him," I say. "Do you have your cell phone with you?"

"Uhm… it doesn't work out here," he mutters, fidgeting in his pant pocket. "Does yours?"

I turn around and unlock the room door, getting my cell phone out of yesterday's pair of jeans. There are no reception bars on it. I shake my head.

"We're going to have to use the room phone," I say. "You may as well come back in here."

"But—room phones only call locally. San Francisco is too far away—"

"It's alright, Adrian," I say. Wow, it feels a lot better to refer to him using his first name. It's as if we're on the same plane, which may or may not be a good thing for him. "I have a calling card."

I use the calling card to dial up the station, where Disher answers the phone. He assures me that neither he nor Stottlemeyer had anyone take the keys to the Grand Cherokee, with my house keys on the same damn keyring….

lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

I hang up the phone in disbelief, angrily staring at a stain on the carpet as I scratch my head. Adrian is gaping at me from his spot on the threshold, clutching the handle of my purse as if it's going to rescue him from certain death.

"I don't get it," I mumble. "He says they didn't take the keys…."

"You mean—" the detective begins— "you don't know where they are then? We're going to have to stay here!"

"Well, they have to be around here somewhere…" I say, walking over to my suitcase and delving into its contents, throwing clothes everywhere in the process.

"We're stuck here then, in this mote-hell," he grumbles. "I knew it!" He's shaking his head like a stubborn mule, waving the purse around. "That's how the captain planned on getting rid of me for good, sticking me in this dump forever…."

"Now, you know that's not true," I pipe up, noticing his clever pun, 'motel' to 'mote-hell.' "He adores you; the whole department looks up to you." I glance around the room, making a complete circle in the process, as the detective stares on expressionlessly. "The keys have _got_ to be somewhere in this room…. " I suddenly remember the fight for the keys that had occurred last night, and it setting the car alarm off. For some unknown reason neither of us had happened to remember that.

After searching through my luggage, patting down the bedsheets and pile of bedding, and opening every drawer of the dresser, nightstand, and medicine cabinet, even peering _behind_ the furniture, I find that my efforts are fruitless. However, in my search for my keys, I have realized that my compact is missing as well—all my makeup, in fact. My makeup bag itself has disappeared, along with my change purse.

I stand in the center of the room for a few seconds staring blankly as I think deeply about last night's events. Where the hell is my makeup bag?

The detective clears his throat and twitches his shoulders, approaching me. I then realize that I never did check his luggage, and I hastily cross over to it and open it up. After turning over a few bagged pillowcases, I find my makeup bag, buried between his pajama sets. I'm sure that the keys have to be in here as well.

A hand grabs my upper arm and yanks me away from the suitcase. "Wh-what do you think you're doing?" he asks me, irritated to no end. "Y-you can't j-just dig through my stuff…. That's personal…"

"Personal?" I say defiantly. "A _pillowcase_ is personal? I saw your pajamas last night, so they're no longer personal." I pull myself towards his bag again, noticing my change purse between two bags of socks. "I'll bet my keys are in your bag," I state, jerking out of his grip. I wave the makeup bag and the change purse in front of his face. "See, I've already found these."

I begin to dig into his suitcase, and he's probably staring on in horror, but I don't care, and I don't look behind me, where he's standing right now. I'm being careful not to wrinkle anything; besides, it's impossible to anyway. Every article of his clothing is bagged separately, and is completely flat in even piles. After I sift between the flattened pairs of socks in baggies, I stack them up on top of my closed suitcase. He's whining and moaning in a tortured voice, but I can't feel bad for him right now.

"J-jus-just let me do it," he says, shoving me forcefully aside with an elbow, after I reach what appears to be a stack of underwear, each as white as the driven snow and folded in neat little baggies. He turns his back to me, blocking my view of whatever he's trying to hide, and soon lets out a frustrated sigh.

"Did you find them?" I quip, crossing my arms as I stand by the window. I turn around to glance at his back, and his shoulders fall. Yep. I was right.

"Yes, they're here," he says, turning around with my keyring on the tip of his index finger. He's not making eye contact with me, but I figured he'd be too embarrassed or disgusted to do so, once he found them.

This whole process is taking way too long. I approach him quickly and snatch the keys away as I make my way to the door. After grabbing my purse from the bed, we head out.

There are probably a dozen people in the hallway, discussing their 'ghostly' encounters in hushed whispers, and our arrival from the room causes them all to stop what they are doing and stare at us.

One middle-aged man in a group of about five speaks up first. "So, did you see the 'ghost' last night?" he questions in an exaggerated spooky tone of voice.

"Uhm… no, we didn't," the detective mutters uncomfortably. "Apparently you all did."

The group of guests collectively nod. I pull out the notepad and a pen, ready to take notes for Adrian's group interview.

"Can anyone tell me about the images you saw?" he asks, a little embarrassed by the enraptured crowd around him.

"Well, it was one image really, just flashed on the screen a couple of times," a man mumbles from the back.

"It was a woman, probably in her mid-eighties. Looked like she was in a hospital bed or something," a college-age man adds.

"Is there anything about the woman that can help us identify her?" the detective asks the group.

"She was… very frail; her eyes were closed, and she had really thin white hair," a woman timidly remarks. "She seemed to be dead already; did anyone else notice that too?" She turns to the crowd, enjoying having the attention on her.

There are collective nods and yesses from the crowd and its extremely variable array of members. Most of the guests here are probably in their twenties, but there are also some middle-aged people, and some who seem to be even older. Most are dressed completely in black, I happen to notice.

"Alright then, let me get this straight," Monk begins. "A frail old woman in a _hospital_ bed was seen last night?"

Another round of nods of agreement, and the detective turns to me, a puzzled look on his face. "What is so profound about the death of a frail old woman in a _hospital_? I thought these were astounding _homicide_ cases…. Someone could have taken that picture _before_ she died," he murmurs, barely above a whisper.

A few of the guests are paying rapt attention, and they speak up in turn. "It was really creepy," one says. "The time of death, 4:30 am, was displayed under the picture, and she _really did _look dead," another adds.

"Okay, okay," Monk turns around, obviously flustered by the attention. "Did anyone notice anything _else_ about the picture, besides the woman herself?"

"Well, the sheets she was laying in said diagonally across them 'Property of Mohave Valley Hospital,'" a middle-aged woman states.

"Interesting…." the detective mutters. He looks over at me, as I feverishly write the woman's observations. "Now, did any of you happen to notice _when_ you saw this… thing…."

"It was about quarter 'til 4," one guest states.

"No it wasn't," a man grumbles. "It was twenty 'til."

"I checked, and it was exactly 3:47 am," yet another argues.

"I clocked the image at 3:47 as well, Harry," a scruffy guy states, apparently knowing the other guest.

"Nah, it was about ten 'til for me," a woman breathlessly adds.

A skinny man steps out of his room nearby. "I saw it at 1:30," he proudly exclaims. The whole group turns and gapes at him, and he bursts out laughing. "Just kidding, guys," he chuckles. "I've only been here one night."

The detective turns to me. "You getting these all down, Natalie?" he asks me coolly.

"Yep," I say, continuing to scribble the various times on the paper.

"So I take it, everyone who saw the image has stayed at this motel for more than one night," he comments. The guests nod, throwing out numbers like 2 and 3 and 4 nights. "Was there a… sighting… the night before last?" he asks, having noticed the larger, 'non-2' numbers in the mix. You'd think they'd be satisfied, seeing one 'ghost.'

"Nope," a man in slippers states, shaking his head. "I've been here three nights now, and this is the first time I've seen one."

Other people soon pipe in. "The ghosts don't happen every night, or every other night. It's pretty sporadic," a gothic-dressed guest mentions.

"Well, how long have you been here?" the detective asks the skinny bespectacled man wearing solid black from head to toe.

"I've been here… a week and a half now…. I've seen…" He uses his fingers to count—"five ghosts."

"Five?" the detective is disturbed by this amount. "Did you notice any… pattern, at all?"

"Nope. I saw one my… second night… and my fourth and fifth… seventh as well… and last night, was the tenth night I've been here. I didn't see anything my first night, but others claim to have seen one…."

"Don't you realize that you don't see ghosts the first night?" a short bald guy retorts.

The comment is so absurd that I almost burst out laughing. These people are all sheep, wanting to get a bit of excitement in their lives. It's too bad they have to go about seeking out 'ghosts' at some dump in the middle of nowhere to get their kicks….

"Does anyone recognize this woman, or know where this 'Mohave Valley' hospital is?" Monk asks the group again, seeking to break up the banter that has now commenced between the two male guests.

"Nope, never heard of it," is heard, as well as various other negatives to both questions. The detective turns to me.

"We have to call Captain Stottlemeyer, and find out where this hospital is. Then we can find out about the victim; maybe this death is linked to the others…."

I nod, and we wave off the crowd and head back into the motel room. Once inside, we contact the captain, and the detective first mentions the whereabouts of the Mohave Valley Hospital. In order for both of us to pick up on the information, we put him on speaker phone.

"The Mohave Valley Hospital is in… Bullhead City, Arizona," the captain says, obviously referring to computer data, for I can hear typing in the background.

"Did anyone die there today?" Adrian asks. There is a pause on the line, as Stottlemeyer instructs the lieutenant to call the hospital. We wait for two minutes or so in anticipation, and soon the captain is back on the line.

"Yes, as a matter of fact, a woman by the name of Virginia Becker passed away early this morning at… 4:30 am. She was 85…. Also, a man named Bu—"

Monk interrupts him, the information registering in his brain. "Do they know anything else about this woman; how she happened to die?"

There's another decently long pause. "Well, she had been in the hospital for a decently long time; she had congestive heart failure…. Apparently, she died of… hmph…" he snorts. "No surprise there. Natural causes." His curiosity is piqued now. "What, was she the 'ghost' last night?"

"Yes," the detective replies. "None of the guests know her, and they said it looked like she had already been dead in the image. They claim to have seen the image from about 3:40 to 3:50 this morning."

"So the image flashed across the screen for ten minutes?" the captain asked.

"No," Monk mutters. "Some of the guests saw it… before other guests…. It's kind of spread out how they happened to see the picture."

"Strange.…" the captain mumbles. "What do you think, Monk?"

"I'm not sure," the detective responds, deep in thought. "How far away is this hospital? Maybe I should go there and—"

"You'd better not, Monk," the captain replies. "It's almost 275 miles—more than 6 hours—_one_ way. You need to be at the motel tonight, because apparently these sightings can happen at any time…."

"I'm well aware of that," the detective snaps back, irritated. "Why am I here then, if I can't go to the victims themselves?"

"You are there to analyze the image, and figure out where these damn things have been coming from, and why. We're not here to make these deaths homicides, understand? First things first."

"—But the images had the precise time of death under them," Monk adds. "Someone had to be acutely aware of when these people passed away, and I can only think of one type of person who would be found in a hospital at 4:30 in the morning to witness the deaths…."

"A nurse…." Stottlemeyer completes the sentence. "But why?"

"I'm not sure…."

* * *

Personally, this was my favorite chapter to write. What do YOU think? I value your opinion!


	8. Sleuthing for Clue Things

Adrian speaks on the phone a while longer with the captain, as I write down information from the past 'ghosts' that have been seen at the motel. The other victims were all more than 250 miles away, with a majority of them from Bullhead City, and others from Willow Beach, Arizona, and Kingman, Arizona, also more than a six-hour drive away from the motel. Apparently, though, the first two victims were from the same Las Vegas hospital, which is also quite far away.

Including the first two victims, the deceased were all found to be very close to each other in proximity. It seemed to me to be a really random sweep of people dying in a little region, because obviously, people die every day.

After getting off the phone with the captain, Adrian seeks to question the guests a bit more, since he's adamant against staying for any extended length of time here.

"I'd like to speak to every guest that stayed here last night," he tells me. "And I'd like to further question the… manager…."

"Alright," I say. "I'm ready to do that." After realizing the guests have dispersed, probably back in their rooms for more shut-eye, we head to room 1, our first personal interview.

The only thing we acquire from the interview is the fact that the guest and his wife had only been there one night in the midst of their travels to Las Vegas and had never heard of the 'ghost' phenomenon. They had not seen the image. We continue on, and find that out of the 24 rooms in the motel, the only ones that saw the image were the ones that had stayed two nights or more, consisting of about 16 of the rooms. When heading to room 15, we find that the family had checked out several minutes before, and Adrian immediately looks to me with hope in his eyes.

"You can stay here for the night," he says giddily, touching the doorknob, and then wiping his hand on his pants. "It's vacant."

I look up the corridor to see a group of people around the concierge's desk. "Not anymore," I grumble, subtly gesturing toward the new guests. He sighs loudly in frustration.

Most of the guests are of the gothic run, and don't mind the disturbingly grotesque living quarters; they just put out more money when it comes time to check out in their common quest to see the future deceased.

"I…think… this place is housing some kind of cult," the detective says, shuddering. "Most of the people here… feel the same way about the images of the deceased…and it's really disturbing…." He's getting worked up now. "And they actually don't _mind_ living in such filth!" he exclaims, emoting with his hands. "I wouldn't be surprised if they hoped I _didn't _figure out what's been going on, so they can continue with their sick fet…."

"Listen, Adrian," I say, putting my hands on his shoulders and looking at him. "The people here, no matter what you think, are harmless. They're just a different brand of people, and this is what gives them their kicks."

"I think I'd like to question the… manager now," he says, averting his eyes to the end of the hallway.

We head over to the desk, where the sloppy man is filling out information about the new guests.

"Hello—excuse me," Adrian stammers, making the man look up from his work. "You remember us from yesterday, Mr.—" He pauses, not knowing the man's name.

"Pratt," the concierge finishes.

"Now, Mr. Pratt," Adrian carefully states, staring at the man's cluttered desk, "you said you've never seen the ghosts?"

"Nope."

He leans slightly, glancing at some manuals on the man's desk. "Why did you not come to the police with this information?"

"It's not hurtin' nothin'," Pratt responds. "The guests are seein' random dead people; what's so illegal about that?"

"Nothing," the detective says. "It seems quite strange that supposedly they're seeing images of dead people _before_ they've died."

"Heck, don't look at me!" the concierge says, throwing his hands in the air. "You explain it, detective; that's not my job!"

"Do you have any other employees working here?" Monk asks.

"Nope, don't need 'em."

"—With all this income, would it really hurt to hire a maid… or two, or thr—"

I kick him in the ankle, making him wince and stop with his comment. Mr. Pratt seems to accept this fact, and doesn't even seem angered by the comment.

The detective is practically staring a hole through the various manuals on the desk. "Have you been teaching yourself electronics?" he asks the man, who is caught off guard. Pratt shuffles the manuals into a neat single pile, clearing his throat.

"Yes, as a matter of fact. Someday this dump'll fall apart, and I'll be out of a job."

"So you're not married?" Monk asks.

Pratt shakes his head. "Nope."

The detective is let down, and I can see his entire body slouching. We are at square one, just where the previous cops were.

Mr. Pratt's desk is covered with papers, mostly of guest lists, electronics manuals, and brochures. It wouldn't seem that such a guy would be interested in learning, let alone about something as complicated as electronics.

"Could you two excuse me?" he says, gripping his pen once more. "I have a ton of stuff to do today."

"Alright," Monk says quietly. "I'll bet you do," he adds in a whisper after we've walked away a good distance.

We get back to our room, and I unlock the door, giving him a perplexed look the entire time. "Do you think _he_ has something to do with this?" I say.

"Ohh, yes…" he says, flashing me a mischievous look. "I don't know _how_ yet, but I have to find out more about the victims…. And I'd like to search his desk." He gives me this funny glance, and I'm immediately scared at what it might mean.

Once I open the door and head into the room with him close behind, he continues to talk. "Is there a way you can… occupy him while I search his desk?" he says carefully, giving me a little smile. "You said it yourself, you're 'cute.'"

"You can't be serious," I tell him. "At least the Vegas bellboy was young and good-looking; this guy is just… disgusting."

"You have to do this. I _have_ to get him away from that desk."

"Can't you just obtain a search warrant and look at it legally?"

"He'll have put all the… controversial stuff away. We need to get this done as soon as possible; he probably realizes we're on to him."

"On to _what_?" I ask. I didn't notice anything strange about what the guy said. Of course, I'm not a detective, so I shut up quickly.

"Well, he has all those manuals for electronic equipment. And I saw some brochures from—"

"You're going to make me do this over manuals and brochures? Don't you need something better than that to accuse the guy?"

"Excuse me—" he says a bit haughtily—"but I'm the detective here. I know what I'm talking about."

"Okay, your highness," I mutter under my breath. I just feel so useless sometimes…

We wait awhile before I attempt this seemingly impossible deed, and I really doubt that I'm going to get anywhere with him unless he has short-term memory loss.

After an hour of flipping through the channels, and Adrian searching for extra wiring coming off of the TV and VCR for the source of the images (and coming up empty-handed, mind you), the time has come. Adrian's about to tell me something. Maybe he's changed his mind about this whole thing.

"Natalie, I have a plan," he states confidently. "I'm going to… go out to the car, like I'm leaving, and you tell him that we are having trouble with our TV and VCR…."

As he says this, he switches around the cables on the VCR, with the cable from the wall going into the 'out' connector, and the cable to the television going into the 'in' connector. He then bends the central wire in the cable to the television _and_ to the wall, and reconnects them loosely, continuing to speak. "Since he's supposedly 'good' at electronics, he should offer to help you. While he's in here, I'll search around his desk."

"Okay," I say, relieved. "That sounds much easier. Do you want to do this now?"

He nods, so I hand him the car keys. "Wait about… five minutes from when I leave," he says carefully. "I'm heading out then." He opens the door, giving me a big smile as he closes it behind him.

After waiting for the longest five minutes of my life, and hiding our massive array of cleaning supplies under the bed, I head out to the concierge's desk. He's still writing; it surprises me that he's even literate.

"Excuse me, Mr. Pratt?" I ask him, approaching timidly, with my hands behind me. He looks up as I signal toward our motel room. "Our TV and VCR aren't working," I say. "Could you help me? I don't know what's wrong with—"

"Isn't your… partner guy with you?" he asks, suspicion in his voice.

"Um, no." I say, surprised that he didn't see Adrian leaving. "He left, to get some supplies," I say casually. "I really wanted to watch TV; it's really boring now that he's gone for awhile."

"Okay, okay," he says. "I'll take a look at it. I can't look for very long though, cause I got a lot of work to do."

I'm surprised that a guy like this isn't trying to hit on me. I'm not egotistical or anything, but I feel like I _was_ egging him on just a little bit, with the way I phrased things. Oh well, it's a relief that he's not some pervert.

We head down to my room, and I open the door for him. He gapes around the shockingly clean room for a moment, then turns to me.

"Uhh, smells really strong in here," he mumbles.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Mr. Monk, he's a cleaning _fanatic_, a complete germophobe. He can't stand the smallest _hint_ of dust. But don't worry; he does this everywhere he goes."

"I see." The concierge crosses to the television, not mentioning another word about the lingering chlorine smell. I wasn't even aware of how strong it still smelled in the room.

He eventually figures out what has happened after about 10 minutes of fuddling around with the VCR power button and examining the cable hookups. This guy really needs to read his manuals more. He doesn't even look at me the entire time, seemingly intent on the task at hand. That's admirable, I guess.

After both things are in working order again, I am still nervous as to whether Adrian will still be fiddling around in the guy's desk.

"Are you _sure_ it's fixed?" I say. I pretend to swoon a bit. "How did you figure that out? You're so much smarter than me." I hold back my gagging as he attempts to respond with a new reddish tint to his face and neck.

"It's actually pretty simp—"

"You don't understand, sir," I say. "This is my _sole_ form of entertainment here. I _need_ this TV. So you're sure it's fixed…"

"Yes, ma'am; the cords were switched around, that's all."

I have added maybe about 5 minutes on to the time with airheaded comments and questions, and figure that's enough. I'm not going to try to convince him to stay any longer with idle chat.

Apparently Adrian's already gotten away from the desk, for Mr. Pratt doesn't make a sound as he heads back up the hallway. I sit around in the room, waiting for Adrian's return, and after 10 minutes more, he comes back in.

"Wow, what a quick trip, Adrian," I say, winking at him. He shuts the door and smiles. "What did you find? Anything interesting?"

"Well… his first name is Ron….He has several manuals about VGA converters and computer programs—I'm not sure what they are—and he keeps a laptop computer in his desk. He has a brochure from the Mojave National Preserve, so he's been in the region of the hospital…. There's a lot of wiring running through the floor, probably running to the ceiling through a pipe up the bathroom wall. I also happened to notice a crumpled up ID sticker in the trash can." He takes a small evidence bag out of his pocket, revealing the balled-up neon orange sticker.

"Why do you think there's _wiring_ running through the pipe? I mean, it _is _in a bathroom."

"Well, the pipe is of a decent diameter, but it runs up the wall _across_ from the sink and toilet, so it has no plumbing use…. There are no other bathrooms nearby…." He starts to unfold the sticker with a pair of tweezers. "We have to see what this sticker says," he states, deeply concentrating.

"I guess that makes sense then. I didn't realize it was across the room from the fixtures." I try to gain some of my dignity back by sounding smart, as I watch him put all of his energy into unraveling the little orange wad.

We call up Captain Stottlemeyer again, but this time Adrian holds the receiver to his ear. I'm not able to hear anything, but I wait in anticipation.

"That's right—a Ron or Ronald Pratt," he says. "—Yes, anything on him at all."

He sighs at whatever response the captain gives him. He then begins to discuss the victims. He hangs up after a while, shifting from foot to foot in the process. He looks to me, as I hold the notepad, ready to write. "The first two victims were found in a Las Vegas hospital after the power went out two nights in a row," he begins with a sigh. "Both were on life support, and apparently the generator didn't kick in right away like it was supposed to, on _two_ consecutive nights, and so one died each night. They don't understand how the second one lived through the first blackout, but he ended up dying the very next day….The guests at this motel saw a picture of the deceased about a half hour _before_ the blackouts ever happened."

"Wow," I say, rapidly taking note of the information, "How is that possible?"

"I think this has all been an inside job," he says, shaking his head. The sticker that is now flattened out is from a hospital, but the writing is so sloppy all over it that it's impossible to tell anything else. And the guy managed to scribble out the typed name of the hospital with an ink pen. A dead end. Adrian continues his explanation as he tosses the useless sticker in the trash can.

"Someone is well-aware of people close to death, or else may actually be causing them, especially in the case of the blackout…." There is a sentimental cast to his eyes, which are focused off into the distance. "I remember another case with a blackout—"

"So, why this motel?" I ask earnestly, cutting him off mid-sentence. He snaps out of his little sentimental reverie with the past case, and gives me a blank look as he shrugs.

"I'm…not sure…."

"Did he say anything about the guy's criminal record, or anything else?"

"He thinks the guy may have given us a fake last name. There is _nothing_ on this guy, not even a high school. I definitely think the concierge is in on all this…."

_Meanwhile, at the concierge's desk…. _

"—None tonight, okay, Sam? There's a… detective staying here, and I think he's on to somethin.'" He stares at the neat piles of papers on his desk as he refrains from speaking for several seconds. "Stuff is… straightened up on my desk; he's definitely been nosin' around…." Ron Pizzone's eyes dart down the hallway, keeping watch for the sleuth and his female partner.

He pauses to listen to the caller's response. "Ya can't be serious!" he exclaims. "This place'd be swarming with cops then. Why would ya wanna take that risk?" There is a pause as he listens to the reply.

"Okay, but how am I gonna do that?" He's more relieved now, but still on edge. Another pause.

"That can be arranged, but they might stay anyw—" It's the dial tone. The caller has hung up, and Ron is left to think about the new plan.

_Back in room 12…._

"We need to find out about the recently hired nurses in Mohave Valley Hospital. And the nurses in… Lake Mead Hospital Medical Center, the hospital where the first two victims died. I think then we'll find our perpetrator. There'll be a match somewhere…."

We decide to call Captain Stottlemeyer from a gas station pay phone down the road. Besides, Disher never did refill the tank after his little excursion. We need to eat some lunch and pick up a dinner as well.

The concierge watches us as he pass him in our trek to the vehicle. I'm a little creeped out, but he really is eyeing us up strangely.

The telephone call confirms Monk's suspicions. In the past couple of months, there were two nurses that had transferred from the Las Vegas hospital to hospitals in western Arizona, including Mohave Valley Hospital, Adrian tells me, as we sit in the restaurant section of the gas station eating subs. A male and a female, apparently. The man's name was Nick Johnson, and the woman's, Samantha Morris. Neither had any kind of criminal record, and had been RNs for years.

"Maybe the concierge is a nurse," I remark to the detective. He gives me a look of disbelief.

"I doubt that," he says, shaking his head.

"Why? Because he's a _man_? What, do you not think men can be nurses too?"

"No," he states. "Think of how… filthy he was, eating that fly-covered—"

"It could be a ploy, though, to lead us on the wrong track."

"Natalie," he scolds like an angry parent, "we didn't know _anything_ at that point. I think he'd only try to steer us in the wrong direction is if we had already known something."

"Well, maybe he thought we knew more about it."

He puts a finger to his chin. "We'll keep an eye on him, if he goes anywhere tonight. Those… locations… seem too far away to get to in one night and back from early the next morning…. I think he's working with someone else—the nurse…."

I nod, and we finish up our meal, and head back to the hotel after picking up a similar meal for dinner from the station.

Immediately I find that the television doesn't work once again, and I am disgusted. I _know_ that the guy had fixed it earlier, and the only reason it was messed up in the first place was because Adrian mixed the cables around. All the cables are intact and plugged into the right places, so I don't see how it's possible that the television isn't working. Adrian even looks at it for me, but can't figure it out either, and we know we can't have the concierge come down here again because it would look suspicious.

All evening the detective examines facts about the case, and compares them to what he had found in the desk. "I think I figured it out… well, some of it," he says, standing up from his seat on the bed. "The concierge—he's been receiving pictures from the… nurse and broadcasts them on the televisions from his desk. Maybe the nurse isn't even aware of what he's been doing with the pictures…. What I don't understand, though, is how the _nurse_ could have taken pictures of dead people _before _they died in apparently non-homicidal ways. It's just not possible…."

After a silent dinner consisting of side salads, salami subs, and Sierra Springs, the most 'S' dinner I've ever had, Adrian goes to his suitcase to get ready to take a shower. He grabs his pajamas and whatever else, since I've now learned that 'looking at other people's luggage is rude,' and slips off his shoes in front of the bathroom door.

The door is only closed once, and I am relieved. However, I have no idea what I'll be doing during the hour it takes him to take a shower. There's no television, and I am disgusted to think I didn't bring any reading material.

I hear a loud yelp and a gagging sound from the bathroom after the shower's been running for 5 minutes or so. "Are you alright, Adrian?" I ask, hurrying over to the door. There's no response. "Adrian, what's wrong?" I repeat. Oh, I _really _don't want to have to go in there to check on him…. I almost died the last time I tried to help him….

After knocking on the door and not hearing any more responses, I decide I _have_ to tell him I'm coming in to check (with my eyes covered, of course).

"Adrian, do you hear me? Adrian?" I'm really getting worried now, and I can hear him gagging again. Is he being choked? Oh God….

"I'm coming in there, Adrian, okay? Do you understand? Adrian!" I cautiously open the door, shielding my eyes….

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	9. Norman Bates Style

I slowly uncover my eyes to find that the shower curtain is closed, and the water from the showerhead is making a sickening gurgling sound. Adrian must still be inside the shower stall.

The shower curtain is an opaque shade of yellow, so I'm not sure of where he'd be standing right now. "Adrian!" I yell again. I can hear a muffled sound which I'm assuming is coming from him, and that does it for me. Here goes nothing….

I pull open the curtain to find him cowering, standing in the corner of the stall furthest from the showerhead holding a soaking wet towel, plastered to his wet skin at his waist level, and covering his mouth with his other hand as he stares wide-eyed at the churning water in the tub.

At the sight of me, the detective cries out pitifully, dropping his other hand to the towel and attempting to wrap it around himself while turning his head to face the wall. He's shuddering all over and breathing heavily with his eyes closed in embarrassment and horror, and I refrain from looking at him anymore in his complete fear, instead diverting my attention to the water. If you could actually call it that.

The gunk pouring from the shower head is brown and lumpy, like sewage, and smells like it as well, I soon find to be true. I cover my nose as I grab the dial and turn off the flow of the disgusting crap filling the tub. Adrian is standing in about an inch of it, and he keeps lifting his feet to avoid prolonged exposure. Once the 'water' has been shut off, he snatches the shower curtain and pulls it around himself as well. He's still shaking and breathing heavily, and can only stare down towards the floor. I can tell he's still trying to keep from throwing up, for he keeps swallowing loudly and closing his eyes as if in pain.

"Why didn't you answer me?" I say, turning to face the other direction, away from him. I may as well not _completely_ scar him for life, because I have never seen him so terrified, and I myself am terrified by the way he's acting right now.

"I… need to… get out of here," he stammers, on the verge of tears. I can hear him stepping out of the tub, for the brown material on his feet makes a squishing sound on the floor. He gags again, and I turn around to face him. He has the shower curtain wrapped around him and his entire upper body is blanched an unhealthy shade of eggshell white. Even so, I can see some of the brown goop on his chest and his arms, and all over the towel, which is now on the floor.

"Yes, and you will," I say as carefully and calmly as possible. "Now, let's get you cleaned up…."

I turn the spigot of the sink to find—the same brown crap pouring out. He's gagging again, feverishly attempting to wipe it off of his arms. I can't imagine how horrible this must be for him: sewage all over him, and him naked in front of another person: a woman, no less. I need to get him some fresh water, but I hate to leave him in this condition. "Adrian," I say insistently, grabbing his shirt. "Put this on, and then we'll find you a place to clean up."

"N-no! It's… all over me! I'm _not _ruining my shirt…."

"How about I buy you a new one after this is all over."

He's shaking his head now and fidgeting, looking up at the ceiling and sighing with immense frustration. He's trying to rub his feet off on the side of the tub as well. "Can you just… go away? I'm—I need to figure out what I'm—"

"Look, I know you're uncomfortable. But you need to put something on. I'm going to see if any other rooms have the same problem."

"Then—go do that!" he exclaims, on the verge of panic.

"Are you going to put your clothes back on then?"

"N—I don't know, I just can't _destroy_ something on purp—"

"Well, then I'm staying here, until you agree that you'll be ready when I get back." I cross my arms, watching his expression change.

"Okay, okay," he says, clutching the shower curtain with renewed insistence. "Just… go!"

I turn around, shutting the bathroom door behind me, leaving him in the revolting rotten-smelling room. Realizing that some of the gunk is now on my hands, I grab a towel from the open suitcase and wipe them off. I head down to room 13, and knock violently on the door.

A gothic couple opens the door, and stand side by side. "Hello, how can we… help you?" the guy asks blandly, noticing my panic.

"Is your water acting up?" I must rephrase my sentence. "I mean, is it clear?"

"Uhm, it's clear…." He's looking at me like I'm a moron, and I can understand that. It_ is_ a weird question that I'm asking.

"Well, the water in our room is really gross, and my boss needs to get it off of him, so can we use your shower for a little while?"

"Uhhhh…." The gothic guy turns to his raven-haired, although quite pale, girlfriend, and they both turn to look at me, nodding slowly. "Yeah, that's… fine…." he mumbles.

I rush back to our room and knock on the bathroom door. "Adrian?" I say in a high-pitched voice. "The room down the hall—their water is fine. Are you decent?"

"No!" he shrieks. "I'm covered in—"

"Do you have your clothes on, I meant!" I'm met with silence. I suddenly think of the robe I had brought for myself. I know he wouldn't dare put on his own clothes, and this may be the only garment I own that may cover him up well enough.

"Adrian," I say. "I'm going to give you something to wear, okay? Just wait." I hurry over to my suitcase and pull out the leopard-print robe. Thank God it's of a decent length; maybe it's possible that he'll slip it on.

I open the bathroom door a crack, and stick an arm into the room with my robe in hand. He's moaning now, and he hasn't taken the garment out of my hand yet.

"Just… take it, Mr. Monk. Those people might change their minds if we don't get a move on. Put it on; I'll buy a new one."

"—But it's…. leopard-print…" he scoffs. "—and it's… yours…."

"I don't care! Just put it on! Please!" My pleading must have gotten to him, for he hastily yanks it out of my hand. After a minute of waiting, I speak again.

"Are you ready?" I say. The door creaks open slowly, and a very humorous-looking Adrian stands at the threshold, wrapped tightly in my robe, holding it together in the front with both hands, with the fuzzy belt tied tightly around his waist. I almost laugh at the silliness of his appearance in the leopard-print, exposing his slender hairy legs up to a few inches above knee-level. He's absolutely miserable, glancing down at himself every few seconds to cringe and readjust the ill-fitting robe, but I think he looks kinda cute. Okay, I know what you're thinking, but it's true!

He's now staring directly downward, and I see that his feet are still covered in the brown gunk, so I run over to the cleaning supplies and grab a box of wet wipes and a roll of paper towels.

"I'm going to wipe off your feet," I say, squatting down to his knee-level with a thick stack of wipes in hand. I'm not touching that crap directly. He backs up.

"What's wrong?"

"—You're wasting them! I'm not paying for all those!"

"Okay then." I stand back up. "Let's walk over to the room then," I say, making my way for the door. He stays put, which I knew he'd do. "Well, aren't you coming?" I ask, looking back at the robed detective.

"Now—Natalie…you know I can't do—"

"Then let me wipe your feet off so you can put on your shoes."

"They won't be clean enough for shoes…." He reaches out towards the wipes pleadingly. "Please don't waste the wipes…." I almost laugh at this comment. He's always wasting wipes; _every_ time he shakes anyone's hand he needs one.

"I have an idea then. We won't waste wipes, and you won't have to put on your shoes yet." I go back over to the supplies and get two plastic grocery bags.

llllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll

I carry his shower supplies in a fresh new towel, along with his clothes and shoes, as he shuffles down the motel hallway in a bathrobe, his bare feet in plastic bags. "This is just… stupid," he pouts, reddening all over.

"Well, you wouldn't let me use your wipes," I say, as I glance over at him. "Don't worry; you'll be cleaned up and good as new in no time."

I knock on the door and the goths let us in. As Monk shuffles his way into the bathroom, I notice that the pair had replaced the motel's shower curtain with a solid black one. Creepy.

He turns around, looking at the pair, who are gaping at him in disgusted shock. That smell is getting to me as well. "Now you're sure that the water is clear?" he asks them.

"Yes," the woman responds. He turns on the water as I'm standing in the doorway to be sure, and then I lay his clothes on the sink-top and shut the door behind me to let him get cleaned up.

I wait back in my room for almost two hours for him to get done and come back over, although I do call to check up on the progress after one hour, and the goths have already become irritated. I can't imagine what they're thinking right now, so I call the room again.

"Is he done yet?" I ask them.

"He keeps saying 'one more minute,'" the man answers, obviously in extreme annoyance, by the tone of his voice. "Get him out of here, it's been long enough," he snaps at me.

"Okay, I'll be right down." I bring fresh clothes down, getting Monk out of the bathroom after only 5 minutes of coaxing, and he emerges smelling and looking a lot better. He uses his towel to hold the shower supplies, but isn't sure of what to do with the robe and the plastic bags, which he has neatly arranged on the floor. After several seconds of staring at the ruined items, the couple walks over to the doorway, glaring at him.

"Just get him out of here!" the gothic woman shrieks. "We'll take care of the stuff ourselves!"

We leave in a hurry, with a trail of my continuous apologies and thank yous. The next hour is pretty uneventful, with the detective pacing back and forth nervously at the thought of the horrid bathroom.

"Can't we just go home now?" he inquires earnestly. "We don't even have water…."

"We could always talk to the concierge," I say, hoping to stop his incessant worrying.

He stops pacing and looks at me incredulously. "I think the concierge did that to the water," he says, "to make us leave early. He's trying to get us out of here. I must be on to something… Or else he's suspicious…."

"Did he see you looking through his desk?"

"No…." It's an unsure-sounding answer.

"Why do you say it like that? He either saw you or he didn't."

"He didn't _see_ me…." He pauses, as if there's more to say.

"Come on, Adrian, what happened? Did you switch something around on his des—"

"Yes…." He's embarrassed, and he kicks at the thick pile of bleach-soaked paper towels against the bottom of the bathroom door.

"What? Is it obvious?"

"I—um… straightened some of the piles, and put the manuals together; they need to be togeth—"

"I can't believe you did that! He knows, Adrian! What if we're next in line to die?"

The lights suddenly go out.

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One more chapter, everyone! Please review! 


	10. The Ghost of FantasE Motel

"Oh my God, we're gonna die," I gasp, feeling around for the window, as I make my way to the other side of the room—I think.

"Natalie, where are you?" he murmurs, sounding far away. "Natalie, don't leave me—"

"I'm not going to leave you," I retort, grabbing a curtain. "I'm just trying to get some light in the room."

"Oh." He then whimpers after a small thud is heard; I think he just stubbed his toe on that damn bedpost.

Once I reach the window, the yellowish streetlamps around the motel illuminate the corner of our blackened room. Adrian stumbles into the light as well, and we just stand there, unsure of what to do.

"I really think I'm coming close to solving this case," he says. "We will just have wait it out."

"What if he's planning on killing us?" I ask breathlessly. "It's very possible, you know…."

"I doubt it," he comments. "The fact that he's not taking the pictures of the dead himself speaks volumes for what he's capable of doing…." He shakes his head. "Nah, he just wants us to leave."

I check my watch to see that it's almost midnight. "Maybe we should just go to sleep now—" I say, "—since we're not leaving, like I'd prefer to do."

"—But aren't you going to take a shower?" he asks weakly.

"Nope." I cross my arms. "I'm _not _going through that again."

"Well, you might have some of that… stuff… on you…." he mutters, taking a few steps toward the bed.

"Actually, I don't," I say. "And if I happened to have any on me, the wipes I was holding and the bleach I spilled all over my arms in the process of soaking those stupid towels got it all off."

This is enough explanation for him. He gets his pajamas in hand, which he had conveniently placed on top of his suitcase, and then walks toward the bathroom, stopping abruptly at the door, for I can hear his shoe squeak at the threshold.

"This isn't going to work," he says. "It's… one big open room…. It's not—I can't change in here…."

"How about I cover my eyes and turn the other way then? It's pitch black where you are right now, Adrian; I couldn't see you even if I wanted to…."

"What?" he asks, surprised. He must have caught the tail end of my comment. He shouldn't even be bothered by this, because he just put on new…. undergarments after his very recent shower. I only know this because he made a big fuss over hiding the old ones from me.

"I'm not going to look," I say. "Why are you even worried about it anymore; I saw you ear—"

"Okay, okay, don't bring that up," he mutters impatiently. This is enough to convince him, because I can hear clothes ruffling, and so I turn to face the window once again.

After the ruffling has stopped, I turn around. "Now I have to change," I say, "so can you let me over there?"

"Yes," he mumbles, walking over to the left side of the bed, sitting on the edge and letting his shoes drop to the floor, and then slipping under the covers in a matter of seconds. He's probably scared to death right now. I don't blame him; he's had a rough day. He then turns on his side toward the window, and I shuffle through my luggage and grab my pajamas. I, unlike him, did not change my undergarments earlier, so I quickly conjure up a plan. I take a clean bath-towel and hold it in my teeth as I change, so absolutely _nothing_ is viewable. After I'm in my pajamas, though, I scoff, wondering why I ever messed with the whole covering-up process, seeing as how I'm rooming with Mr. Modesty, who in his obedience and sheer horror at nudity, has remained facing the other wall.

"Okay, I'm done," I say, slipping under the sheets after kicking off my shoes.

He turns over, facing me. I never realized how close we really are in proximity on this little bed. He opens his mouth to speak but nothing comes out.

"What is it?" I say, turning to face him as well, for I had been lying on my back.

"Well—I, uhm—I can't promise that I… I—well, you remem—"

"It's okay," I say. "Do you _remember _doing it?"

"Uhm… no," he says, fidgeting a bit. I'm a little disappointed. Maybe he thought I was Trudy or something; who knows.

"That settles in then. No matter what _you_ think, you did nothing wrong. You're too hard on yourself, Adrian…." It still sounds funny saying that, but I like how it feels to say his first name.

"Goodnight, Natalie," he whispers. For some strange reason, I get a little bit of a chill, then remembering that it's probably because the heater is turned off. Everything in this room is going to be out of commission all night, and it's probably going to get cold….

"Goodnight, Adrian."

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I wake up slowly from my sleep with goosebumps and a chill radiating all over my body. It's then that I realize Adrian and I are cuddled up in the center of the bed, face to face, and his pajama sleeves must be a bit rolled up, for I can feel his arm hair tickling me. I lift an arm to rub my eyes, and allow for the covers to slide down a little. Adrian really looks peaceful in his sleep, almost as peaceful as when he was found buried in the casket in the Sonny Chow murder case. There's a big smile on his face; I've never seen someone so happy to be sleeping.

Soon though he stirs awake, opening his eyes to find himself face to face with me. There have to be mere centimeters between our faces right now, and I'm taken aback but I try not to show it. Usually I'm awkward being uneasily close to him, but right now I find I'm as comfortable as if Mitch himself was here with me. Adrian doesn't jerk away as he had done after the first night; he just gently lifts his arm off of where it was draped over my side, and rolls onto his back, rubbing his eyes as his smile slowly fades.

"What time is it?" he says, groaning in an early-morning voice.

I grab my watch off the nightstand and hit the Indiglo button. "It's… four in the morning," I grumble, sighing angrily.

"Wow, it's really cold in here," he says, rubbing his upper arms. "Is that why you woke up?"

"Yes," I answer, pulling the covers up to my chin. "Were you cold too?"

"Not until you started moving…." I am pleasantly surprised by his comment, and I smile. "Uhm, the blanket slipped down," he attempts to correct. It's too late. I'm finding myself a bit giddy after his statement.

"Well, I'm going back to sleep," I say, snuggling the sheets around me.

"Goodnight," he whispers. Oh, how I love his little traditions; he probably always had to make sure to say goodnight to—wait, did I just say 'love?' I couldn't have….

"Goodnight," I whisper back. He lies on his back now, with the sheets up around his neck. I can feel his arm brush against mine as he settles into his position; he has goosebumps too.

The sleep that follows does not last long, for a high-pitched shriek is heard coming from outside of the motel. I jolt up abruptly, noticing that Adrian is just a step behind.

"What the hell was that?" he says, glancing nervously around the pitch black room.

"I don't know, and I don't want to find out," I reply fearfully, getting a sudden chill.

He sits up fully, and drapes his legs over the side of the bed as he puts on his shoes. "I have to see what happened," he says. "Are you coming?"

I sigh deeply, and force myself to leave the warm confines of the covers for my cold shoes on the floor.

We head out of the room to find that the hallway lights are all still on, but something more pressing is at hand. Other guests have emerged from their rooms as well, and are congregated by the main entranceway. Adrian and I shove past them and step out into the chilled night air, seeing something lying in the middle of the road in front of the motel.

Upon closer inspection, the 'something' is found to be the body of the concierge. He's holding a duffle bag, which presumably was filled with money, for there are still some bills inside, and others scattered across the road.

"Looks like he was hit by a car while trying to leave with the money…." I murmur. The detective shakes his head. I don't know whether I'll ever be right with my assumptions. He begins to explain his reaction.

"—Why would he be in the middle of the road with the money? He owns a car, I'm sure, so why didn't he just drive off with it?" He points to the cars in the parking lot. "Besides, who would come out these roads at this time of the night anyway?"

It appears the concierge may still be alive, although in his last moments, for he has just taken a large gulp of bloody air, and is staring at us with fearful, blood-shot eyes. He grabs Monk's pajamas, causing the detective to yelp and jump back, and hoarsely utters one last word. "Sam…." He then releases his grip of the shirt, rolling his eyes back into his head, and letting out his last breath.

I bow my head, thinking of Mitch. I hope he didn't have to die like this…. I hope it was quick and painless…. I can feel tears coming to my eyes, but I wipe them away.

The guests soon pour out of the motel and approach us tentatively. "What happened?" one asks.

"A murder," Adrian says matter-of-factly, looking up from the roadside. "Call 911! And tell them to watch for a Samantha Morris at the Mexican border as well, and to apprehend her; she's a suspect in at least three murders! Do you hear me? Samantha Morris!" he cries, turning his view to the crowd, as several members nod in response. "And please…could you all go back inside? This is a crime scene!" The group of guests slowly makes their way back into the building, mumbling to one another excitedly.

The detective swabs the man's large blood-covered watch with one of the bills, and leans in closer to get a better look. He then glances around the parking lot, noticing something on the sandy asphalt. It looks like tire-tracks to me.

"I've got it all now!" he says, jumping to his feet. "I know exactly what happened…."

"You are truly amazing!" I exclaim, "—but what are we going to do about the body?" The emergency squad might hit it on their way over here."

"We'll just have to stand here then, in front of the body…" he mutters. I stand up next to him, and we wait in the middle of the dark highway for the arrival of the emergency vehicles. I am shivering in the intense cold, which is compounded by the fact that it is January and I'm out in a desert at night, wearing my skimpy pajamas.

"Okay! Here's what happened," he says, excitement evident in his voice. "Samantha Morris, the nurse, had been traveling along this road, probably on her way to work, or to interview for a new job. She noticed the desolate motel and thought up a great money-making scheme.

"After initially meeting the concierge, she became his… partner, probably his girlfriend, eventually…. She had him buy all sorts of high-tech equipment like the VGA converters and cable adapters, along with a computer, and promised him that if he followed her plan, they'd make the money back, and more….

"She was going to create a reputation for the motel, an infamous reputation, by making it, how do you say, 'haunted….' She would—take pictures of the deceased after they had passed away, and then transfer them to the motel; they would then be broadcast to the guests who stayed more than one night—the higher paying guests—along with the time of death, so there was no discrepancy. The key to this was that this revelation had to happen _before_ they had died, so it wouldn't seem like a blatant murder linked directly to the motel. The early warning was more of an eerie event than an affirmation of homicide.

"For the first two deaths, she herself had to kill the victims, who were on life support in the hospital where she worked. She unplugged their machines _before _the blackout, which is when they passed away, then took a digital picture and sent it to the motel, afterwards causing the _real_ power outage, having known about the generator problem—it's an old hospital, the one in Las Vegas…. She had worked there for quite some time so it wasn't difficult to know what breaker to shut off. During the blackout, she plugged the machines back in, making it seem as if the generator hesitancy was the sole cause of their deaths.

"She then thought up an even _better_ plan that didn't involve killing anyone. She had been on suspicion for the two deaths in Nevada, but hadn't been formally charged, and so she went to Arizona. In the winter, Arizona switches to Mountain Time, which is an hour _ahead _of California time. See?" He motions to the large watch on the man's wrist, with its various faces. "He's wearing a watch with the different time zones, just to make sure he remembers when to broadcast the deaths…. After that adjustment, it was easy for the pair. The patients would die and she would send the pictures to this motel with their time of death, and the motel would display them a half hour _before _the time of death. That way, a death that happened at 4:00 am in Arizona could be broadcast at this motel at 3:30 am.

"As you can see, at rumors of ghosts, the motel became packed, and all the money that was made was placed in safekeeping within the motel, but nothing was ever repaired. I had been suspicious of that myself, seeing how many guests come through this place….

"Tonight she was going to send the concierge another picture, but he probably told her that I was suspicious of him and that he wasn't going to take the risk. She then drove down here, figuring that he was having a change of heart, that he was going to make a run for it, so she decided not to take that risk, and simply killed him. She had never supposed that it may have actually been true that I could have been on the right track. She'll probably be at the Mexican border in a few hours."

"—but why was he in the middle of the road?"

"She most likely attacked him and knocked him unconscious in his sleep," He says, motioning to the tire tracks in the sand. "These tire tracks are fresh, showing that she pulled into the parking lot first and went inside. She probably hit him in the head with some blunt instrument, then dragged him out to the road with the duffel bag in his hand, making it seem like he was trying to hitchhike with the money in tow. She then took the money and ran him over as she left, shrieking, to alert the motel as to when it'd be supposed that he was killed." He strides over to the motel entrance, kicking the dust up, as I walk beside him. "She did a nice job of wiping away the drag marks, but she forgot about her tire tracks."

He smiles broadly, having solved the case. I am so proud of him that I wish I could kiss him on the cheek, but I guess a hug will have to do for now. Without warning, I do just that, and he lets me. We stand in that embrace until the emergency vehicles arrive, keeping each other warm.

**The End**

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Please tell me what you think of my story! You can either choose to review, or email me at naturechildwv at excite dot com. I really love feedback, good or bad! Please don't hesitate to leave me some! If you can't review now, do it at some point, please! 


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